^,5\<^y^\<s§S5^s^\5«^\^^^^^^-J^¥^>?» 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arcinive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/dramaticworksmol02moliiala 


"Aalo^io  (t'^^'L 


THE  DRAMATIC  WORKS  OF  MOLI^RE. 


stack 
Annex 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


VOLUME  SECOND. 


The  Princess  of  Elis, 

La  Princesse  d'  jkUde 


PAGE 


I 


Don  Juan;  or,  The  Feast  with  the  Statue. 

Don  Juan  ;  ou,  Le  Festin  de  Pierre       .....      69 

Love  is  the  Best  Doctor. 

V Amour  Medecin j,e 

The  Misanthrope. 

Le  Misanthrope      .....  ,        ,  j^x 

The  Physician  in  Spite  of  Himself. 

Le  Medecin  Malgre  lui  •••..,  24.7 

Melicerte. 

Comedie  Pastorale  Heroique   ...  ,        ,  goi 

A  Comic  Pastoral. 

Pastorale  Comique, ,21 

The  Sicilian;  or,  Love  makes  the  Painter. 

Le  Sicilien  ;  ou,  L Am.  vr  Peintre 000 

Tartuffe;   or,  The  Hypocrite. 

Tartuffe ;  ou,  U Imposteur      •....,,     061 

Amphitryon, 

Amphitryon  Comedie ^ee 

George  Dandin;   or,  The  Abashed  Husband. 

George  Dandin ;  ou,  Le  Mart  Confondu        ....     515 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


VOLUME  SECOND. 


PAGB 

I.  The  Physician  in  Spite  of  Himself.    Act  II.,  Sc.  4. 

Le  Mededn  Malgri  lui        ,         ,         .         .        Frontispiece 

II.  Don  Juan.    Act  II.,  Scene  5. 

Don  yuan ;  ou.  Le  Festin  de  Pierre    ....      95 

III.  The  Misanthrope.    Act  II.,  Scene  5. 

Le  Misanthrope ,        ,     209 

IV.  TartuffE.     Act  III.,  Scene  6. 

Tartuffe;  ou,  L'Imposteur 429 

V.  Amphitryon.    Act  I.,  Scene  2. 

Amphitryon  Comedie A71 

VI.  George  Dandin.     Act  II.,  Scene  3. 

George  Dandin ;  ou,  Le  Mari  Confondu     ,        .        .    545 


LA  PRINCESSE  D'ELIDE. 

COMEDIE-BALLET. 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS. 

a  comedy-ballet  in  five  acts. 

(  the  original  partly  in  prose  and  partly  in  verse.) 

8th  May  1664. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


In  the  month  of  May  1664,  Louis  XIV.  entertained  the  Queen-mother, 
Anne  of  Austria,  and  his  own  wife,  Maria  Theresa,  with  a  brilliant  and 
sumptuous  fete  at  Versailles.  It  began  on  the  7th,  and  lasted  a  whole 
week.  The  duke  do  Saint-Aignan  was  commissioned  to  superintend  the 
arrangements  ;  and  the  plan  he  adopted  was  suggested  by  the  materials 
which  he  discovered  in  the  6th  and  7th  cantos  of  Ariosto's  epic  poem, 
Orlando  Furioso,  which  describe  the  sojourn  of  Rogero  in  the  isle  and 
palace  of  t]\e  enchantress  Alcina.  The  king  was  Rogero,  whilst  the  princes 
and  courtiers  personified  the  other  characters  mentioned  in  the  poem. 
We  shall  give  a  description  of  this  fete  farther  on. 

In  this  fete,  the  second  day  was  distinguished  by  the  representation  of 
The  Princes  of  Elis  ;  and  subsequent  days  saw  the  production  of  The 
Bores,  The  Forced  Marriage,  and  the  first  three  acts  of  Tartuffe.  For 
their  services  on  this  occasion,  Moli^re's  troupe  received  the  sum  of  4,000 
livres. 

The  Princess  of  Elis,  a  comedy-ballet,  was  intended  to  represent  the 
struggle  between  the  affections  of  the  male  and  female  sex, — a  struggle  in 
which  victory  often  remains  with  the  one  who  seems  the  farthest  from  ob- 
taining it.  Shakespeare  has  also  attempted  to  sketch  this  strife  in  Afuch 
ado  about  Nothing,  in  As  You  like  it,  and  in  A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream. 

Moliere  composed  this  comedy-ballet  at  the  special  request  of  the  king ; 
and  it  was  conceived  in  a  romantic  vein  suitable  to  the  character  of  the 
fete.  The  author's  natural  flow  of  wit  and  humour  was  checked  by  the 
necessity  of  accommodating  himself  to  the  conventionalities  of  courtly  ' 
propriety;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  Moliere  mingled  a  good  deal  of 
water  with  his  wine,  in  order  to  please  the  fastidious  palates  of  the  cour- 
tiers. He  borrowed  his  subject  from  Moreto's  Spanish  comedy,  ElDesden 
con  el  Desden  (Scorn  for  Scorn).  The  idea  is  pretty,  and  there  is  abund- 
ant room  for  the  development  of  plot  and  passion  ;  but  the  genius  of  the 
adapter  was  cramped,  and  The  Princess  of  Elis  is  certainly  not  one  of  his 
happiest  efforts.  He  has  narrowed,  rather  than  improved  upon,  the  treat- 
ment of  Moreto  ;  he  has  blunted  the  edge  of  the  Spaniard's  keenness,  and, 
taking  the  situations  almost  too  punctiliously,  has  rendered  them  bare  and 
barren.  He  transports  the  scene  to  Elis  ;  and  the  Count  of  Urgel,  the 
Prince  of  Beam,  the  Count  of  Foix,  are  disguised  under  the  Princes  of 
Ithaca,  Pylos,  and  Messena.      He  was  hurried  in  his  work ;  and,  almost 

3 


4  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS. 

as  if  himself  craving  for  relief  from  an  unwelcome  mood,  he  created  and 
sustained  the  character  of  the  fool  Moron, — a  coward  who  gives  good 
advice,  and  is,  on  the  whole,  not  unlike  Butler's  Hudibras. 

The  piece  was  again  produced  in  July  of  the  same  year  at  Fontaine- 
bleau,  before  the  Pope's  Legate ;  and  in  November  and  December,  it  had 
a  run  of  twenty-five  days  at  the  theatre  of  the  Palais- Royal.  It  undoubt- 
edly hit  the  mark  with  some  amongst  Moliere's  contemporaries  whose 
tastes  were  similar  to  those  of  the  court.  As  an  ephemeral  production, 
therefore,  designed  for  a  temporary  purpose,  it  nnay  be  held  to  have  been 
successful. 

James  Miller  wrote  a  play  called  The  Universal  Passion,  acted  at  the 
Theatre,  Drury  Lane,  on  the  28th  of  February,  1737,  which  consists  of 
Shakespeare's  Much  ado  about  Nothing,  and  Moliere's  Princess  of  Elis. 
He  acknowledges  his  obligations  to  Shakespeare,  but  does  not  say  any- 
thing about  the  French  dramatist.  In  the  dedication  of  The  Universal 
Passion  to  Frederick  Frankland,  Esq.,  it  is  stated,  thai  "the  strict  Regard 
I  have  had  to  Decency  and  good  manners  ...  is  the  principal  Merit .  .  , 
the  World  is  at  present  happily  inclin'd  to  support  what  is  produced  with 
that  Intention."  The  Prologue,  spoken  by  Mr.  Gibber,  harps  on  the 
same  string,  and  ends  thus : 

"  Howe'er,  this  Merit  he  at  least  can  claim. 
That  sacred  Decency  's  his  constant  Aim  ; 
There's  nought  but  what  an  Anchoret  might  hear, 
.  No  Sentence  that  can  wound  the  chastest  Ear  .  .  . 

To  your  Protection  Shakespeare's  Offspring  take. 
And  save  the  Orphan  for  the  Father's  Sake." 

George  Hyde  wrote  Love's  Victory  ;  or  the  School  for  Pride,  a  comedy 
in  five  acts,  founded  on  the  Spanish  of  Moreto,  and  performed  at  Covent- 
Garden,  November  16,  1825.  As  Moli^re  borrowed  from  the  same 
source,  there  is  a  great  similarity  in  the  plot  of  both  plays,  but  Hyde  has 
chiefly  followed  the  arrangement  of  a  German  author.  West,  and  can 
therefore  hardly  be  said  to  have  imitated  Moli^re. 

As  we  have  already  mentioned,  Moliere's  play  formed  part  of  the  court 
entertainment,  and  was  published  in  Les  Plaisirs  de  V Isle  Enchantee : 
Course  de  Bague,  Collation  ornee  de  Machines,  Comedie  de  Moliere  de  la 
Princesse  d^ Elide,  tneslee  de  Danse  et  de  Musique  Ballet  du  Palais  d'Al- 
cine.  Feu  d' Artifice  :  Et  autres  Festes  galantes  et  magnifiques  ;  faites  par 
le  Roy  a  Versailles,  le  7  May,  1664.  Et  continuees  plusieurs  autres  yours. 
Paris,  Robert  Ballard,  1665.  Although  the  description  of  Tlie  Pleasures 
of  the  Enchanted  Island  was  not  written  by  Moliere,  who  wrote  only 
comedy,  it  is  inserted  in  the  first  collected  edition  of  our  author's  works ; 
and  I  give  it  here  as  a  specimen  of  the  complimentary  style  of  the  official 
catalogue  of  entertainments  of  Louis  XIV.  I  am  indebted  for  the  com- 
pleteness and  accuracy  of  nearly  all  the  notes  which  illustrate  Les  Plaisirs 
de  V Isle  Enchantee,  to  M.  Paul  Lacroix,  the  Bibliothecaire  de  I'Arsenal, 
well  known  as  the  Bibliophile  Jacob,  who  kindly  communicated  to  me 
the  genealogy  and  short  history  of  the  noble  ladies  and  gentlemen  who 
took  part  in  the  festivities  at  Versailles.  These  fetes,  given  nominally  in 
honour  of  the  two  Queens,  but  in  reality  to  please  the  queen,  Mademoi- 
selle de  la  Valli^re,  "  whom  the  king  delighteth  to  honour,"  lasted  seven 
days  ;  the  description  opens  thus  : — 

"  The  King,  vnshing  to  give  to  the  Queen  and  the  whole  Court  the 
pleasure  of  some  uncommon  entertainments,  in  a  spot  adorned  with  all 


THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  5 

thebeauties  to  be  admired  in  a  Country  Seat,  chose  for  that  purpose  Ver- 
sailles, four  leagues  from  Paris.  It  is  a  seat  which  may  justly  be  called  an 
Enchanted  Palace  so  much  have  the  embellishments  of  Art  seconded  the 
care  which  Nature  has  taken  to  render  it  perfect.  It  is  every  way  charm- 
ing ;  everything  pleases  both  within  and  without :  gold  and  marble  vie 
there  in  beauty  and  splendour  ;  and  although  it  is  not  so  extensive  as  some 
of  her  Majesty's  other  Palaces,  yet  all  things  there  are  so  polished,  so  well 
contrived,  and  so  perfect,  that  nothing  can  equal  them.  Its  symmetry,  the 
richness  of  its  furniture,  the  beauty  of  its  walks,  and  the  infinite  number 
of  its  flowers,  as  well  as  of  its  orange-trees,  render  the  neighborhood  of 
that  place  worthy  of  its  singfular  rarity.  The  different  animals  within  the 
two  parks  and  the  menagerie,  wherein  are  several  courts,  in  the  figure  of 
stars,  with  ponds  for  the  water-fowl,  together  with  great  structures,  add 
pleasure  to  magnificence,  and  create  a  palace  in  which  nothing  can  be 
found  to  criticise."  1 

First  Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

It  was  in  this  beautiful  place  that  on  the  fifth  of  May  all  the  Court  met, 
and  that  the  King  treated  above  six  hundred  persons  till  the  fourteenth, 
not  reckoning  a  great  number  of  persons  necessary  in  the  dancing  and  in 
the  play,  besides  all  kinds  of  workmen  who  came  from  Paris ;  so  that  they 
looked  like  a  small  army. 

The  very  heavens  appeared  to  favour  his  Majesty's  designs,  since  in  a 
season  in  which  it  almost  always  rains,  there  was  only  a  slight  wind,  which 
seemed  to  rise  solely  in  order  to  show  that  the  King's  foresight  and  power 
were  proof  against  the  greatest  inconveniences.  High  cloths,  wooden 
buildings,  run  up  almost  in  an  instant,  and  a  prodigious  number  of  torches 
of  white  wax,  to  supply  daily  the  place  of  above  four  thousand  wax  can- 
dles, resisted  the  wind,  which  everywhere  else  would  have  rendered  these 
diversions  almost  impracticable. 

Monsieur  de  Vigarani,  a  gentleman  from  Modena,  very  skilful  in  all 
such  things,  invented  and  proposed  these.  The  King  commanded  the 
duke  de  Saint-Aignan,  who  was  then  first  Gentleman  of  the  Chamber,^ 
and  who  had  ere  this  arranged  several  very  agreeable  balls,  to  plan  some- 
thing which  might  contain,  connect,  and  group  them  all,  so  that  they 
could  not  fail  to  please. 

He  took  for  his  subject  the  Palace  of  Alcina,'  which  gave  the  name  to 

II  am,  of  course,  not  answerable  for  the  peculiar  style  of  the  offici.^l  catalogue. 
A  "  Collation  adorned  with  machines  "  would  be  rather  hard  to  digest  in  the  pre- 
sent times.  One  statement  in  the  opening  paragraph  is  also  startling  :  "  Nature  has 
taken  care  to  render  it  (Versailles)  perfect."  Now  Nature  has  taken  no  care  to 
render  Versailles  perfect ;  and  it  is  said  to  have  cost  so  much  money,  that  Louis 
XIV.  did  not  like  the  fabulous  sums  spent  on  it  to  be  known,  but  threw  the  accounts 
into  the  fire.  The  palace  and  gardens  of  Versailles  were  begun  in  1661,  and  not  fin- 
khed  until  1684.  The  King  did  not  reside  there  until  1682,  and  according  to  A.  de 
Labcrde,  Versailles  ancien  et  vioderne,  in  1664  the  palace  was  still  in  the  same 
state  as  Louis  XIII.  had  left  it. 

2  Francis  I.  instituted  in  1545  the  post  of  Gentilhomme  de  la  chambre  du  roi,  of 
which  there  were  two  at  the  first,  and  afterwards  four.  Each  served  a  year,  and 
received  9500  livres,  besides  considerable  perquisites,  and  a  pension  of  4500  livres. 
Their  duties  were  to  give  orders  that  the  King's  first  mourning  garments  should  be 
made,  as  well  as  his  ball,  ballet,  and  theatrical  dresses;  they  also  regulated  the 
mourning  of  the  members  and  officers  of  the  royal  household  and  family,  the  ordi- 
nary and  extraordinary  expenses  for  the  King,  his  entertainments,  &c. 

3Alcina,  who  changed  her  lovers  into  trees,  stones,  fountains,  or  beasts,  accord- 
ing to  her  fancy,  is,  in  Ariosto's  Orlando  Furioso,  the  personificalion  of  carnal 
pleasure. 


6  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS. 

The  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island,  because,  according  to  Ariosto, 
the  brave  Rogero,  and  several  other  good  knights,  were  detained  there  by 
the  spell  of  beauty  (though  it  was  artificial),  and  by  the  incantations  of 
that  enchantress,  and  were  delivered,  after  a  long  time  spent  in  pleasures, 
by  a  ring,  which  destroyed  the  enchantment.  It  was  the  ring  of  Angelica, 
which  Melissa,  under  the  disguise  of  old  Atlantes,  at  length  placed  upon 
Rogero's  finger. 

In  a  few  days  there  was  fitted  up  a  round,  where  four  great  alleys  met 
between  high  palisades,  with  four  porticos  thirty-five  feet  high  and  twenty- 
two  feet  square,  and  several  festoons  enriched  with  gold  and  divers  paint- 
ings, with  his  Majesty's  arms. 

All  the  court  having  taken  tfieir  places  on  the  seventh  ;  there  entered, 
at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  a  herald  at  arms,  represented  by  M.  des 
Bardins,  dressed  after  the  antique  manner,  in  flame-  colour,  embroidered 
with  silver,  and  very  well  mounted. 

He  was  followed  by  three  pages.  The  King's  (M.  d'Artagnan)  *  pre- 
ceded the  two  others,  very  richly  dressed  in  flame-colour,  his  Majesty'^ 
livery,  bearing  his  lance  and  shield,  whereon  sparkled  a  sun  of  precious 
stones,  with  these  words:  Nee  cesso,  nee  erro  (I  neither  stay,  nor  stray), 
alluding  to  his  Majesty's  application  to  the  affairs  of  state  and  his  manner 
of  governing ;  which  was  likewise  represented  by  these  four  verses  of  the 
President  de  Perigny,  author  of  the  said  device.^ 

Not  without  reason  Heaven  and  earth  behold 
So  rare  an  object  with  the  utmost  wonder, 
Who  in  his  no  less  hard  than  glorious  course. 
Does  never  take  repose,  nor  ever  strays. 

The  two  other  pages  belonged  to  the  dukes  de  Saint-Aignan  and  de 
Noailles,  the  former  marshal  of  the  camp,  the  latter  judge  of  the  course. 
The  duke  de  Saint-Aignan's  page  bore  the  shield  of  his  device,  and  was 
dressed  in  his  livery  of  silver  cloth,  enriched  with  gold,  with  flesh-coloured 
and  black  plumes,  and  ribands  of  the  same.  His  device  was  the  bell  of  a 
clock,  with  these  words :  De  mis golpes  mi  ruido  (From  my  strokes  (pro- 
ceeds) my  noise). 

The  duke  de  Noailles'  page  was  dressed  in  flame-colour,  silver  and 
black,  and  the  rest  of  the  livery  in  harmony.  The  device  on  his  shield 
was  an  eagle,  with  these  words  :  Fidelis  et  audax  (Faithful  and  bold). 

Four  trumpeters  and  two  kettle-drummers  followed  these  pages,  dressed 
in  flame-colour  and  silver,  with  plumes  of  the  same,  and  the  caparisons 
of  their  horses  embroidered  in  the  same  colours,  with  very  brilliant  suns 

*  It  is  not  easy  to  say  who  M.  d'Artagnan  was,  for  many  of  the  Montesquiou 
family  bore  the  name  and  arms  of  d'Artagnan.  The  best  known,  however,  and 
the  one  who  enjoyed  the  King's  confidence,  was  the  son  of  Henri  de  Montesquiou- 
d'Artagnan  and  of  Jeanne  de  Gassion  (a  sister  of  a  marshal  of  France  of  the  same 
name;,  who  was  called  Charles  de  Bats,  capitaine-lieutenant  ot  the  first  company 
of  the  King's  musketeers.  To  him  was  entrusted  the  guard  of  Foquet  (see  Preface 
to  Tlte  Bores,  Vol.  I.),  until  the  latter  was  condemned.  The  well-known  pam- 
phleteer, Courtilz  de  Sandraz,  wrote  in  1700  the  Memoires  de  M.  d'Artagnan, 
after  some  curious  notes  left  by  that  nobleman  ;  and  the  late  Alexandre  Dumas  has 
partly  followed  these  memoirs  in  The  Three  Musketeers. 

*  De  Perigny,  president  aux  enquetes  at  the  Parliament  of  Paris,  was  reader  to 
the  King  in  1663,  teacher  to  the  Dauphin  in  1666,  and  died  in  1670.  He  had  a 
wholly  literary  office  at  court.  In  1664  he  wrote  in  verse  the  ballet  of  the  Amours 
deguises,  and  at  the  same  time,  under  the  eye  of  Louis  XIV.,  his  Journal  and 
Memoirs. 


THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  7 

upon  the  bandrols  of  their  trumpets '  and  the  coverings  of  the  kettle- 
drums. 

The  duke  de  Saint-Aignan,  marshal  of  the  camp,  came  after  them, 
wearing,  in  the  Greek  fashion,  a  cuirass  of  silver-cloth,  covered  with  little 
scales  of  gold,  as  was  also  the  lower  part  of  his  cloak ; '  his  helmet  was 
adorned  with  a  dragon  and  a  great  number  of  white  feathers,  mixed  with 
flesh-coloured  and  black  ones.  He  rode  a  white  horse,  caparisoned  in 
the  same  fashion,  and  represented  Guido,  the  savage. 

Madrigal  for  the  duke  de  Saint-Aignan,  representing  Guido,  the  savage. 

Those  combats  I  fought  in  the  dang' reus  isle. 

When  1  so  many  warriors  overcame, 

Followed  by  battles  of  an  am'rous  kind, 

Showed  what  my  strength  as  well  as  heart  could  do. 

My  well-known  force  in  lawful  frays  displayed. 

Or  in  forbidden  fields  exerted. 

Proclaim  it,  for  my  glory,  at  both  poles  ; 

None,  during  war,  deals  more  or  better  strokes. 

For  the  same. 

Singly  against  ten  warriors  and  ten  maids, 
I  am  engaged  in  two  peculiar  contests. 
If  I  with  honour  leave  this  twofold  field, 
Methinks  I'm  then  a  most  terrific  warrior.' 

Eight  trumpeters  and  eight  kettle-drummers,  dressed  like  the  first, 
walked  behind  the  marshal  of  the  camp. 

The  King,  representing  Rogero,  followed  them  upon  one  of  the  finest 
horses  in  the  world,  of  which  the  fiame-coloured  trappings  shone  with 
gold,  silver,  and  precious  stones.  His  Majesty  was  armed  in  the  Greek 
fashion,  as  were  all  those  of  his  troop,  and  wore  a  cuirass  of  silver  {slates, 
covered  with  a  rich  embroidery  of  gold  and  diamonds.  His  carriage  and 
whole  action  were  worthy  of  his  rank ;  his  helmet,  entirely  covered  with 
flame-coloured  plumes,  looked  incomparably  beautiful ;  never  did  a  more 
free  or  warlike  air  raise  a  mortal  so  much  above  other  men.^ 


•According  to  Ash's  "  Dictionary  of  the  English  Language,"  London,  1775,  a 
bandrol  is  "  a  little  flag  or  streamer,  the  fringed  flag  hung  on  to  a  trumpet." 

'  In  the  original,  son  has  de  saie,  translated  by  my  predecessors  as  "  his  silk 
stockings,"  in  mistake  for  bas  de  saie. 

8  Francois  de  Beauvillier,  first  duke  de  Saint  Aignan,  born  in  1610,  was  peer  of 
France,  gentleman  of  the  King's  chamber,  and  lieutenant-general.  His  county  had 
been  erected  into  a  duchi-prairie  in  December,  1663.  He  was  a  lover  of  literature, 
a  patron  of  Moliere,  a  member  of  the  French  Academy,  and  died  in  1679. — Guido, 
the  savage,  is,  in  Ariosto,  a  son  of  Constantia  and  Amon,  and  a  younger  brother  of 
Rinaldo.  Being  wrecked  on  the  coast  of  the  Amazons,  he  was  doomed  to  fight 
their  ten  male  champions,  and  having  killed  them  all,  was  obliged  to  marry  ten 
emazons  ;  hence  the  allusion.  At  last  he  succeeds  in  escaping  with  his  favourite 
wife  Aleria,  and  joins  the  army  of  Charlemagne. — These  verses  and  the  following 
were  written  by  Benserade. 

*  Rogero,  the  brother  of  Marphisa,  was,  on  the  death  of  his  mother,  Galaciella, 
nursed  by  a  lioness.  Brought  up  by  Atlantes,  the  magician,  who  gave  him  a  shield 
of  such  dazzling  splendour  that  every  one  quailed  who  set  eyes  on  it,  and  which 
shield  he  threw  into  a  well,  he  deserted  from  the  Moorish  army,  was  baptized, 
married  Bradamant,  Charlemagne's  niece,  and  became  King  of  Bulgaria. — I  wish 
to  draw  attention  to  the  official  flatteries  about  Louis  le  Grand's  "  carriage," 
"  action,"  and  "  air ; "  even  his  horse  and  helmet  come  in  for  their  share. 


8  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS. 

Sonnet  for  tlie  King,  representing  Rogero. 

What  shape,  what  carriage  this  bold  conqu'ror  has. 

His  person  dazzles  each  beholder's  eye  ; 

And  though  by  his  high  post  he  is  distinguished. 

Yet  something  greater  sparkles  in  his  mien, 

Oearly  his  brow  his  future  fate  foretells 

His  virtue  outshines  all  his  ancestors ! 

They  are  forgotten.     If  he  continues  so, 

He'll  leave  them  far,  yea  very  far,  behind. 

His  generous  heart  delights  to  employ  its  time. 

To  act  for  others    and  not  for  himself. 

In  this  his  power  is  chiefly  occupied. 

All  ancient  heroes  pale  compared  to  him. 

Honour's  his  sole  aim;   he  only  draws 

The  sword  for  other  inl' rests  than  his  own. 

The  duke  de  Noailles,  judge  of  the  lists,  by  the  name  of  Ogier  the 
Dane,i<>  marched  after  the  King,  wearing  flame-colour  and  black  under- 
neath a  rich  embroidery  of  silver;  his  plumes,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  his 
equipage,  were  of  the  same  livery. 

For  the  Duke  de  Noailles,  judge  of  the  lists,  representing  Ogier  the  Dane. 

The  only  business  of  this  paladine 
Is  well  to  serve  the  greatest  king  on  earth. 
As  he  who  judges  well  must  act  as  well, 
Methinks  none  from  his  sentence  will  appeal. 

The  duke  de  Guise  and  the  count  d'Armagnac  went  after  him.  The 
former,  under  the  name  of  Aquilant  the  black.n  wore  a  black  dress  em- 
broidered with  gold  and  jet ;  his  horse  and  his  lance  being  matched  in 
the  same  colours.  The  count,  representing  Gryphon  the  white, i'''  wore  on 
a  dress  of  silver  cloth  several  rubies,  and  rode  on  a  white  horse  capari- 
soned in  the  same  colour. 

For  the  duke  de  Guise,  representing  Aquilant  the  black. 

Night  has  its  beauties,  and  so  has  the  day ; 
Black  is  my  colour,  and  I  always  loved  it. 
But  if  obscurity  does  suit  my  love, 
"1"  has  not  extended  to  my  well-known  fame. 


•o  Ogier  the  Dane,  a  paladin,  married  Ermellina,  the  daughter  of  Namus,  duke 
of  Bavaria,  of  whom  was  bom  Dudon. — Anne  de  Noailles,  was  the  first  duke,  his 
county,  d'Ayen,  having  been  erected  into  a  duchi-pairie  in  1663.  He  was  first 
captain  of  the  king's  life-guards,  lieutenant-general  of  Auvergne,  and  had  married 
in  1646  Louise  Boyer,  dame  d'atours  of  the  Queen  Anne  of  Austria.  He  died  :ii 
1678.     Mad.  de  Sevigne's  letters  are  filled  with  details  about  him  and  his  family. 

'1  Aquilant,  a  knight  in  Charlemagne's  army,  always  wore  black  armor.  Whilst 
Martano  was  strutting  about  in  Gryphon's  white  armour,  he  met  Aquilant,  who  took 
him  prisoner  to  Damascus. — The  duke  de  Guise,  Henri  de  Lorraine,  second  of  that 
name,  peer  and  grand  chamberlain  of  France,  was  bom  in  1614,  and  died  twenty 
days  after  the  fetes  of  the  A/f  A"«f/ja«/?'^,  on  the  2d  of  June  1664.  He  had  been 
one  of  the  first  patrons  of  Moliere,  when  the  lacter  acted  at  the  Illustre  Theatre 
in  1645.  This  prince,  who  had  attempted  rashly  to  become  King  of  Naples,  in 
1647,  died  unmarried. 

^*  Gryphon,  a  brother  of  Aquilant,  ever  wearing  white  armour,  overthrew  the 
eight  champions  of  the  King  of  Damascus.  Whilst  asleep  Martano  stole  Grj'phon'.s 
armour,  and  he  was  obliged  to  put  on  the  coward's  ;  hence  he  was  hooted  and  jos- 
tled by  the  crowd.  At  last  everything  is  discovered,  and  the  right  man  is  put  in  the 
right  place. — Louis  de  Lorraine  count  d'Armagnac,  son  of  Henri  de  Lorraine,  Count 
d '  H  arcourt,  was  grand  icuyer  of  France,  seneschal  of  Bourgogne,  and  governor  of 
Anjou.  v. 


THE   PRINCESS   OF  ELIS.  9 

For  the  count  (TArmagnac,  representing  Gryphon  the  -white. 

Behold  what  candour  Heaven  has  placed  in  me ; 
Thus  no  fair  maid  by  me  shall  be'deceived  ; 
When  it  is  time  to  attack  the  enemy 
My  sword  will  keep  my  colour  stainless  white. 

The  dukes  de  Foix  and  de  Coaslin  appeared  afterwards,  dressed,  the 
one  in  flesh-colour,  with  gold  and  silver,  and  the  other  in  green,  with  white 
and  silver ;  their  livery  and  horses  were  worthy  the  rest  of  their  equipage. 

For  the  duke  de  Foix,  representing  Rinaldo?^ 

He  bears  a  glorious  name,  is  young  and  sage. 
To  speak  the  truth  he  lief  mounts  very  high ; 
What  great  good  fortune,  at  so  young  an  age 
To  have  such  fire  as  well  as  so  much  calmness. 

For  the  duke  de  Coaslin,  representing  DudoS^ 

None  can  too  far  in  glory's  course  engage. 
Though  seven  kings  I  were  to  conquer  bravely. 
And  see  them  subject  to  Rogero's  power. 
Yet  e'en  this  exploit  would  not  content  me. 

After  them  marched  the  Count  de  Lude  and  the  Prince  de  Marsillac, 
the  former  dressed  in  flesh-colour  and  white,  and  the  other  in  yellow,  white 
and  black,  enriched  with  silver  embroidery,  their  livery  of  the  same,  and 
very  well  mounted. 

For  the  count  de  Lude,  representing  Astolpho?^ 

Of  all  the  paladines  this  world  contains. 
No  knight  more  prone  to  love  was  ever  seen. 
Always  in  fresh  adventures  he'll  engage. 
And  ever  smitten  by  some  youthful  fay. 

For  the  Prince  de  Marsillac,  representing  Brandimarty^ 

My  vows  will  be  content,  my  wishes  crowned,. 
My  fortune  at  its  utmost  height  arriv'd. 
When,  lovely  Flordelice,  my  zeal  you  know. 
Indelibly  within  my  heart  imprest. 

JSRinaldo,  in  Ariosto's  poem,  was  the  son  of  the  fourth  marquis  of  Este,  the  rival 
of  his  cousin  Orlando  for  the  love  of  Angelica,  who  detested  him,  and  the  leader  of 
a  corps  of  Scotch  and  English  auxiliaries  in  Charlemagne's  army. — Gaston-Jean- 
Baptiste  de  Foix  and  de  Candale,  peer  of  France,  eldest  son  of  the  countess  de 
Fleix,  was  called  Duke  de  Foix,  because  hLs  county  of  Randan  had  been  raised  by 
the  King  into  a  duche-pairie.  He  died  in  1665,  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  and  his 
brother  and  heir,  Henri  Francois  de  Foix,  then  took  the  title. 

1*  Dudo  was  the  admiral  commanding  the  fleet  of  Orlando  and  Astolpho, — Ar- 
mand  du  Cambout,  duke  de  Coaslin,  peer  of  France,  chevalier  des  ordres  dti  roi, 
lieutenant  general,  had,  only  in  the  beginning  of  1664,  been  made  a  duke  and 
peer ;  he  was  formerly  a  marquis. 

15  Astolpho,  an  English  duke,  the  son  of  Otho,  joined  Charlemagne  against  the 
Saracens  ;  he  w,as  carried  upon  the  back  of  a  whale  to  the  island  of  Alcina,  who 
soon  tired  of  him  and  changed  him  into  a  myrtle.  His  descent  into  the  infernal  re- 
gions, and  his  flight  to  the  moon,  are  among  the  best  parts  of  the  Orlando  Furi- 
ojo.— -Henri  de  Daillon,  count  de  Lude,  first  gentleman  of  the  King's  chamber 
grand  master  of  the  artillery,  captain  of  the  castles  of  St.  Germain  and  Versailles! 
was  made  duke  and  peer  in  1675,  and  died  without  issue  in  1685.  He  is  often  men- 
tioned in  Mad.  de  Sevigne's   letters. 

»6  The  Prince  de  Marsillac  was  Francois  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  eighth  of  that 
name,  and  son  of  the  famous  duke  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  author  of  the  Maxims. 


JO  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS. 

The  marquises  de  Villequier  and  de  Soyecourt  followed.  One  wore  blue 
and  silver,  the  other  blue,  white,  and  black,  with  gold  and  silver ;  their 
plumes  and  the  harness  of  their  horses  were  of  the  same  colour,  and 
equally  rich. 

For  the  Marquis  de  Villequier,  representing  RichardettoV 
No  one,  like  me,  with  gallantry  could  quit 
An  intrigue  where,  no  doubt,  some  skill  was  greatly  needed. 
No  one  deceived  his  fair  so  pleasantly,  methinks. 
While  all  the  time  remaining  faithful  to  her. 

For  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt,  representing  OlivieroA^ 
Behold  the  honour  of  the  age,  compared  to  whom 
E'en  giants  and  ourselves  are  ordinary  men  ; 
This  valiant  knight,  prepared  for  all  that  come. 
Has  aye  his  lance  quite  ready  for  the  tilts. 

The  marquises  d'Humiferes  and  de  la  Vallifere  followed  them.  The  first 
wore  flesh-colour  and  silver,  and  the  other  gridelin.i^  white,  and  silver ; 
their  whole  livery  being  the  richest  and  best  matched  in  the  world. 

For  the  Marquis  d'Humiires,  representing  Ariodatttes.^ 
Fevered  by  love,  I  tremble  in  my  fit. 
And  without  boast  elsewhere  I  ne'er  did  tremble ; 
Handsome  young  Ginevra  is  the  only  fair 
Young  charmer  to  whose  laws  I  bow. 

For  the  Marquis  de  la  Vallikre,  representing  Zerbino.^ 
Whate'er  grand  feelings  glory  may  inspire 
iVhen  we  are  wholly  all-absorbed  in  love  ; 
To  die  in  the  arms  of  her  whom  we  admire, 
Methinks  is  of  all  deaths  the  one  most  pleasant. 

Hewasbom  in  1639  and  died  in  1714.  He  married,  in  1659,  his  cousin,  Jeanne 
Charlotte  du  Plessis  Liancourt,  daughter  of  the  Count  de  la  Roche-Guyon. — Bran- 
dimart,  one  of  the  bravest  knights  in  Charlemagne's  army,  was  slain  by  Gradasso, 
King  of  Sericana  ;  he  was  the  brother-in-law  of  Orlando,  and  the  lover  of  Flordel- 
ice,  daughter  of  Dolistone.  According  to  Ariosto  (Orlando  Furioso)  QslTH.-xXu., 
St.  14),  he  thus  spoke  to  Orlando,  when  dying  : — "Ne  men  ti  raccomando  la  mio 
Fiordi.  .  .  Ma  der  non  puote  ligi  :  e  qui  fjnio."  Rendered  by  Rose  in  his  transla- 
tion : — "  Nor  recommend  to  thee  less  warmly  my — " — Flordelice  would,  but  could 
not,  say — and  died. 

"  Richardetto  was  the  sonof  Aymon  and  brother  of  Bradamant,  and  was  mistak- 
en by  Flordespine  for  his  sister  Bradamant.  This  rather  free  story  may  be  read 
in  the  twenty-fifth  canto  of  the  Orlando  Furioso. — Louis  Marie-Victor  d'Aumont, 
marquis  de  Villequier,  eldest  son  of  the  duke  d'Aumont,  bom  in  1632,  was  first  gen- 
tleman of  the  King's  chamber.  At  his  father's  death,  in  1669  he  became  duke, 
peer,  and  marshal  of  France. 

r"A?i'^^"°  °^  Burgundy  was  a  famous  paladin,  son  of  Rinieri  of  Vienna,  brother 
of  Alda,  and  father  of  Gryphon  and  Aquilant.  The  descriptive  verses  contain  an 
allusion  to  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt's  prowess,  of  which  the  curious  may  find  the 
details  in  the  chronique  scandaleuse  of  Louis  XIV. 's  age.— Maximilien  Antoine  de 
Belleforiere,  marquis  de  Soyecourt  or  Saucourt,  was  grand  master  of  the  King's 
wardrobe,  and  became  afterwards  master  of  the  hunt  to  the  King :  he  died  in  1679. 
He  is  the  Dorante  of  The  Bores  (sec  Introductory  Notice,  Vol.  1). 

>•  According  to  several  old  dictionaries,  "gridelin"  is  a  colour  mixed  of  white  and 
red. 

*>  Ariodantes,  an  Italian  knight  at  the  court  of  Scotland,  duke  of  Albany,  married 

•  *!ir?f  daughter  of  that  king.— Louis  de  Crevant,  fourth  of  that  name,  mar- 
quis d  Humieres,  lieutenant-general,  was  made  a  duke  and  peer  in  1688,  and  at  the 
Mme  time  was  appointed  marshal  of  France  and  grand  master  of  the  artillery, 
"ifidame  de  Sevigne  mentions  his  name  several  times  in  her  letters. 

"  Zerbino,  duke  of  Ross-shire,  was  the  son  of  the  King  of  Scotland,  and  the  inti- 
nate  tnend  of  Orlando.     He  died  in  the  arms  of  the  sorrowing  Isabel. 


THE  PRINCESS   OF  ELIS.  II 

Monsieur  the  Duke "  went  alone,  having  for  his  livery  flame-colour, 
white  and  silver  ;  a  great  number  of  diamonds  were  fastened  to  the  mag- 
nificent embroidery  with  which  his  cuirass  and  the  lower  part  of  his  cloak 
were  covered ;  his  helmet,  and  the  harness  of  his  horse  being  likewise 
adorned  with  them. 

For  Monsieur  the  Duke,  representing  Orlando.^ 
Fame  will  in  distant  lands  Orlando's  name  make  known. 
Glory  shall  ne'er  depart  from  him  ; 
Descended  from  a  race  that  e'er  desires 
To  show  its  valour  when  war  is  proclaim'd. 

In  him,  to  speak  unvarnished  truth. 

Flows  the  pure  blood  of  Charlemagne.^* 

A  car,  eighteen  feet  high,  twenty-four  long,  and  fifteen  wide,  appeared, 
afterwards  shining  with  gold  and  divers  colours.  It  represented  the 
chariot  of  Apollo,  in  whose  honour  the  Pythian  games  were  formerly  cele- 
brated, which  those  knights  intended  to  imitate  in  their  lists  and  dresses. 
The  god,  radiant  with  light,  was  seated  on  the  top  of  the  car,  having  at 
his  feet  the  four  ages,  distinguished  by  rich  habits,  and  by  what  they  bore 
in  their  hands. 

The  golden  Age,  adorned  with  that  precious  metal,  was  also  decked 
with  different  flowers,  one  of  the  principal  ornaments  of  that  happy  age. 
The  silver  and  brass  Ages  had  also  their  distinguishing  marks.  The  iron 
Age  was  represented  by  a  warrior  of  terrible  aspect,  holding  his  sword  in 
one  hand,  and  his  buckler  in  the  other. 

Several  other  large  figures  in  relief  adorned  the  sides  of  the  magnifi- 
cent chariot.  The  celestial  monsters,  the  serpent  Python,  Daphne,  Hya- 
cinth, and  the  other  figures  which  are  suitable  to  Apollo,  with  an  Atlas 
bearing  the  globe,  were  also  elegantly  carved  upon  it.  Time,  represented 
by  M.  Millet,'''*  with  his  scythe,  his  wings,  and  that  decrepitude  in  which 
he  is  always  depicted,  was  the  coachman.  The  car  was  drawn  by  four 
horses,  of  uncommon  size  and  beauty,  abreast,  covered  with  large  hous- 
ings, ornamented  with  gold-worked  suns. 

The  twelve  hours  of  the  day,  and  the  twelve  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  splen- 
didly dressed,  as  the  poets  described  them,  walked  in  two  files  on  both 
sides  of  the  chariot.  All  the  knights'  pages  followed  it  in  pairs,  after  the 
duke's,  very  neatly  dressed  in  their  liveries,  with  a  great  many  plumes, 
bearing  their  master's  lances,  and  the  shields  with  their  devices. 

The  Duke  de  Guise,  representing  Aquilant  the  black,  having  for  his 
device  a  lion  sleeping,  with  these  words  Et  quiescente  favescunt  (They  fear 
me  even  when  asleep). 

The  count  d'Armagnac,  representing  Gryphon  the  white,  having  for  his 
device  an  ermine,  with  these  words:  Ex  candore  decus  (My  beauty  pro- 
ceeds from  my  whiteness).  . 

The  duke  de  Foix,  representing  Rinaldo,  having  for  his  device  a  ship 

82 The  "  Duke"  was  the  name  given  to  the  duke  of  Enghien,  the  son  of  the 
Prince  de  Conde.  ...  ,  ,  r/-i,    i ™,= 

iO.Orlando  was  lord  of  Anglant,  and  through  his  mother  a  nephew  of  Charlemagne 
Although  a  married  man,  he  fell  in  love  with  Angelica,  daughter  of  the  infidel  king 
of  Cathay  ;  but  she  fled  with  Medoro,  the  Moor,  to  India  ;  whereupon  Orlando  oe- 
came  mad,' or  rather  lost  his  wits,  which  were  deposited  in  the  moon.  Astolpno 
went  to  fetch  them  in  Elijah's  chariot,  and  St.  John  gave  them  to  him  in  an  "rn. 
Orlando  recovers  his  wits  by  sniffing  at  the  urn. 

M  An  allusion  to  the  Prince  de  Conde  being  a  Bourbon.  .      ,,  ,  ,     ,  . 

*M  Millet  was  the  coachman  in  ordinary  to  Louis  XIV.,  and  celebrated  for  hia 
skiU. 


12  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS. 

on  the  sea,  with  these  words :  Longe  levis  auraferet  (A  slight  breeze  will 
carry  it  far). 

The  duke  de  Coaslin.  representing  Dudo,  having  for  his  device  a  sun 
and  a  sun-flower,  with  these  words :  Splendor  ab  obsequio  (Its  splendour 
arises  from  its  obedience).^^ 

The  count  de  Lude,  representing  Astolphus,  having  for  his  device  a 
cypher  in  the  form  of  a  knot,  with  these  words  :  Non  fia  mat  sciolto  (It 
shall  never  be  broken). 

The  prince  de  Marsillac,  representing  Brandimart,  having  for  his  device 
a  watch  in  relief,  of  which  all  the  springs  were  visible,  with  these  words  : 
Chieto  fuor,  commoto  dentro  (Calm  without,  agitated  within). 

The  marquis  de  Villequier,  representing  Richardetto,  having  for  his 
device  an  eagle  soaring  before  the  sun,  with  these  words :  Uni  militat 
astro  (He  fights  for  a  single  star).^'' 

The  marquis  de  Soyecourt,  representing  Oliviero,  having  for  his  device 
Hercules'  club,  with  these  words :  Vix  oeq-uat  fama  labores  (his  fame  is 
scarce  equal  to  his  labours). 

The  marquis  d'Humi^res,  representing  Ariddantes,  having  for  his  device 
all  sorts  of  crowns,  with  these  words  :  No  quiero  menos  (Less  will  not 
content  me). 

The  marquis  de  la  ValliSre,  representing  Zerbino,  having  for  his  device 
a  phoenix  on  a  pile  set  on  fire  by  the  sun,  with  these  words  :  Hoc  juvat 
uri  (It  is  pleasant  to  be  so  burnt).** 

The  Duke,  representing  Orlando,  having  for  his  device  a  dart,  wreathed 
with  laurel,  with  these  words:   Certo  ferit  (It  strikes  surely). 

Twenty  shepherds,  carrying  different  pieces  of  the  barrier  to  be  set  up  for 
the  tilting,  formed  the  last  troop  that  entered  the  lists.  They  were  dressed 
in  short  jackets  of  flame-colour,  adorned  with  silver,  and  caps  of  the 
same. 

As  soon  as  these  troops  entered  the  camp,  they  went  round  it.  and,  after 
having  paid  their  obeisance  to  the  queen,  they  separated,  and  each  took 
his  post.  The  pages  who  were  in  front,  the  trumpeters  and  kettle-drum- 
mers crossed,  and  stationed  themselves  at  the  wings.  The  King  advanc- 
.  ing  towards  the  middle,  placed  himself  opposite  to  the  high  canopy  ;  the 
Duke  near  his  Majesty  ;  the  dukes  de  Saint-Aignan  and  de  Noailles  on 
the  right  and  left ;  the  ten  knights  in  a  line  on  both  sides  of  the  chariot ; 
their  pages  in  the  same  order  behind  them  :  the  Hours  and  the  signs  of 
the  Zodiack  as  they  entered. 

When  they  had  thus  stopped,  a  profound  silence,  which  arose  from 
attention  and  respect,  gave  Mademoiselle  Debrie,^  who  represented  the 
Age  of  Brass,  an  opportunity  to  recite  these  verses,  in  praise  of  the 
Queen  addressed  to  Apollo,  represented  by  M.  de  la  Grange. 

The  Brass  Age  {to  Apollo). 
Thou  dazzling  father  of  the  day,  whose  power 
Does  by  its  various  aspects  give  us  birth ; 

*  These  words  were  flattering  to  Louis  XIV.,  whose  device  was  the  sun. 

^  The  same  remark  can  be  applied  to  the  marquis  de  Villequier's  device. 

®  These  words  were  very  ingenious,  because  the  sun  was  the  device  of  Louis 
XIV.,  the  lover  of  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere.  The  marquis,  her  brother,  could 
therefore  not  do  less  than  delicately  allude  to  it  by  stating  that  "  it  is  pleasant  to 
be  burnt  by  the  sun."  The  noble  Marquis  became  duke  de  la  Valliere  and  peer  in 
1688.  after  his  sister  had  taken  her  vows  in  the  Carmelite  convent. 

29  For  the  actors  and  actresses  of  Moliere's  troupe,  see  Introductory  Notice  to 
The  Impromptu  0/  Versailles,  Vol.  I, 


THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  I3 

Hope  of  the  earth,  and  ornament  of  Heaven, 
Thou  fairest  and  most  necessary  god  ; 
Thou,  whose  activity  and  sovereign  bounty. 
In  every  place  makes  itself  seen  and  felt, 
Say  by  what  destiny,  or  what  new  choice. 
Thy  games  are  solemnized  on  Gallia's  shores. 30 

Apollo. 

If  all  th'  address,  the  glory,  valour,  merit. 
Which  made  Greece  shine,  are  found  on  these  blest  shores. 
Then  justly  hither  are  those  games  transferred. 
Which,  to  ray  honour,  earth  has  consecrated. 

I  ever  did  delight  to  pour  on  France 
The  balmy  influence  of  my  gentle  rays ; 
But  the  bright  dame  whom  Hymen  there  enthrones. 
Makes  me  for  her  disdain  all  other  realms. 

Since  for  the  wide  creation's  good  so  long 
I've  made  the  boundless  tour  of  seas  and  earth 
I  ne'er  saw  ought  so  worthy  of  my  fires. 
Such  noble  blood,  so  generous  a  heart. 
Never  such  lustre  with  such  innocence. 
Never  such  youth  with  so  much  sound  discretion ; 
Never  such  grandeur  with  such  condescension. 
Never  such  wisdom  joined  to  so  much  beauty. 

The  thousand  various  climates  which  are  ruled 
By  all  those  demi-gods  from  whom  she  springs. 
Led  by  their  own  devoir  and  her  high  merit. 
United,  will  one  day  confess  her  power. 

Whatever  grandeur  France  or  Spain  might  boast. 
The  rights  of  Charles  the  Fifth,  and  Charlemagne, 
Auspiciously  transmitted  in  her  blood. 
Will  to  her  throne  subject  the  universe  : 
But  a  yet  greater  title,  nobler  lot. 
Which  lifts  her  higher,  and  which  charms  her  more, 
A  name  which  in  itself  all  names  outweighs. 
Is  that  of  consort  to  the  mighty  Louis. 

Silver  Age. 
By  what  unjust  decree  has  fate  produced, 
A  star  so  kindly  in  the  age  of  iron? 

Golden  Age. 

Ah  !  Do  not  murmur  at  the  gods'  appointment. 
This  age  which  has  the  hate  of  Heav'n  deserv'd. 
Instead  of  growing  proud  with  that  rare  blessing. 
Ought  thence  to  augurate  its  approaching  ruin. 
And  think  a  virtue  which  it  can't  corrupt. 
Comes  rather  to  destroy  than  to  ennoble  it. 

As  soon  as  she  appeared  on  this  blest  earth. 
She  chased  away  the  furious  raging  war  ; 
From  that  same  day  labour  unwearied  hands 
To  render  happy  all  humanity. 
See  by  what  hidden  springs  a  Hero  strives. 
To  banish  from  a  barbarous  age  its  horrors. 
And  kindly  to  assist  my  resurrection. 
With  all  those  joys  which  innocence  desires. 

Iron  Age. 
I  know  what  enemies  have  planned  my  ruin. 
Their  plots  are  known,  their  strategems  are  traced; 
But  yet  my  courage  is  not  so  far  sunk     .     .     . 

*>  The  president  de  Perigny  is  the  author  of  the  following  verses,  as  well  as  those 
pronounced  by  the  other  Ages,  by  Apollo,  the  Seasons,  Diana,  and  Pan.  I  have 
taken  them  from  some  older  translations  and  corrected  and  modified  them,  when 
necessary. 


14  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS. 

Apollo. 
Should  all  hell's  monsters  join  in  thy  defence. 
Feeble  and  vain  would  their  resistance  prove 
Against  such  grandeur  and  against  such  virtue  : 
Long  with  thy  galling  yoke  the  world  opprest 
Shall  by  thy  flight  a  happier  lot  enjoy. 
'Tis  time  that  thou  give  way  to  the  high  law 
Which  an  august  and  mighty  Queen  imposes. 
It  is  time  to  yield  to  the  illustrious  labours 
Of  a  great  King,  favoured  by  Heaven  and  Earth; 
But  here  too  long  this  quarrel  made  me  stay  ; 
These  lists  invite  to  much  more  gentle  combats. 
Let  us  ope  them  just  now,  and  laurels  wreathe 
To  bind  the  brows  of  our  most  famous  warriors. 

After  all  these  verses  were  spoken,  the  running  at  the  ring  began ; 
wherein,  after  they  had  admired  the  King's  skill  and  gracefulness  in  that 
exercise,  as  in  all  others,  and  after  several  fine  courses  of  all  these  knights, 
the  duke  de  Guise,  the  marquises  de  Soyecourt  and  de  la  Valliere  re- 
mained the  last.  The  last  bore  off  the  prize,  which  was  a  golden  sword 
enriched  with  diamonds,  with  very  valuable  buckles  for  the  belt,  which 
the  Queen-mother  gave,  and  wherewith  she  honoured  him  with  her  own 
hand. 

They  began  their  running  in  such  good  time,  that  just  when  it  was 
finished,  darkness  came  on ;  when  a  great  number  of  lights  illuminated 
this  beautiful  place,  and  thirty-four  musicians,  who  were  to  precede  the 
Seasons  entered  very  well  dressed,  and  performed  the  most  pleasant  music 
in  the  world. 

Whilst  the  Seasons  were  taking  up  the  delicious  viands  they  had  to 
carry  for  the  magnificent  entertainment  of  their  Majesties,  the  twelve 
signs  of  the  Zodiac  and  the  four  Seasons  danced  in  the  ring  one  of  the 
finest  entrees  ever  seen. 

Spring,  represented  by  Mademoiselle  Duparc,  afterwards  appeared  on 
a  Spanish  horse.  She  showed  the  skill  of  a  man,  as  well  as  womanly  at- 
tractions. Her  dress  was  green  with  silver  embroidery,  adorned  with 
flowers. 

M.  Duparc,  who  represented  Summer,  followed  upon  an  elephant 
covered  with  rich  housings. 

Next  came  M.  de  la  Thorilli^re,  representing  Autumn,  as  splendidly 
dressed,  and  mounted  on  a  camel. 

Winter,  represented  by  M.  Bejart,  followed  on  a  bear. 

Forty-eight  persons  followed  them,  carrying  on  their  heads  large  basins 
for  the  lunch. 

The  first  twelve,  covered  with  flowers,  carried,  like  gardeners,  baskets 
painted  green  and  silver,  containing  a  great  many  china  dishes,  so  full 
of  preserves  and  many  other  delicious  things  of  the  season,  that  they  bent 
beneath  the  agreeable  load. 

Twelve  others,  like  reapers,  clothed  in  garments  which  suited  their  pro- 
fession, but  very  rich,  carried  basins  of  that  incarnadine  colour  which  may 
be  observed  at  sun-rise,  and  followed  Summer. 

Twelve  others,  dressed  like  vine-dressers,  were  covered  with  vine- 
leaves,  and  bunches  of  grapes,  and  bore  in  baskets  of  filemot  colour,^! 
full  of  little  basins  of  the  same,  various  other  fruits  and  preserves.  These 
followed  Autumn. 

The  last  twelve  were  old  men,  nearly  frozen  to  death,  whose  furs  and 

81  The  original  \ias./euille-tnorte ,  the  colour  of  a  dead  leaf. 


THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  I  5 

gait  showed  how  they  felt  the  inclemency  of  the  weather,  as  well  as  their 
weakness,  bearing,  in  basins  covered  with  ice  and  snow  so  well  imitated 
that  they  might  have  been  taken  for  the  very  things  they  were  intended  to 
represent,  that  which  was  to  contribute  to  the  collation.  These  followed 
Winter. 

Fourteen  musicians  preceded  the  two  divinities  Pan  and  Diana,  with  an 
agreeable  harmony  of  flutes  and  bagpipes. 

Pan  and  Diana  then  appeared  upon  a  very  ingenious  carriage,  shaped 
like  a  little  mountain  or  rock,  shaded  by  several  trees,  and  so  wonderfully 
constructed,  that  the  machinery  which  held  it  in  the  air,  and  put  it  in  mo- 
tion, could  not  be  perceived. 

Twenty  other  persons  followed,  carrying  viands,  the  produce  of  Pan's 
menagerie  and  of  Diana's  chase. 

Eighteen  pages  of  the  King,  very  richly  clad,  who  were  to  wait  upon 
the  ladies  at  table,  came  last.  The  whole  troop  then  placed  themselves 
in  order.  Pan,  Diana,  and  the  Seasons  presented  themselves  before  the 
Queen,  whilst  Spring  first,  and  the  others  afterwards,  addressed  her  in  the 
following  words : 

Spring  {to  the  Queen). 
Of  all  the  new-born  flowers  that  deck  my  gardens. 
Scorning  the  jessamine,  the  pinks  and  roses, 
These  lilies  I  have  chosen  to  pay  my  tribute. 
Which  in  your  earliest  years  you  so  much  cherished. 
Louis  has  made  them  shine  from  east  to  west. 
Whilst  the  charmed  world  at  once  respects  and  fears  them. 
But  still  their  reign's  more  soft  and  powerful  too, 
When,  brilliant-like,  they  beam  on  your  complexion. 

Summer. 
Seized  with  too  hasty  a  surprise,  I  bring 
A  slender  ornament  to  grace  this  feast  ; 
Yet  know,  before  my  season's  passed  away. 
Your  warriors  in  the  fields  of  Thrace, 
Shall  reap  an  ample  crop  of  laurels. 

Autumn. 
The  Spring,  proud  of  the  beauty  of  those  flowers 
Which  to  his  lot  have  fortunately  fallen. 
Thinks  to  have  all  th'  advantage  of  this  feast. 
And  quite  obscure  us  by  his  lively  colours. 
But  you,  you  matchless  Princess,  well  remember 
What  precious  fruit  my  season  has  produced. 
Which  in  your  house  cloes  one  day  mean  to  prove 
The  darling  and  the  blessing  of  mankind. 3* 

Winter. 
The  snow  and  icicles  I  hither  bring. 
Are  viands  far  from  being  rare  or  precious  ; 
But  they're  most  necessary  in  a  feast. 
Where  with  their  killing  eyes,  a  thousand  objects. 
Replete  with  charms,  so  many  flames  create. 

*2  An  allusion  to  the  Dauphin,  born  on  the  ist  of  November,  1661.  What  Sum- 
mer has  said  before  about  the  "  ample  crop  of  laurels  "  your  warriors  shall  reap  in 
the  fields  of  Thrace,  I  cannot  elucidate,  because  in  1664  there  was  neither  war  nor 
rumours  of  war.  The  last  line  Pan  states,  " 'Tis  to  your  charms  that  happiness 
we  owe  "  refers  to  the  Peace  of  the  Pyrenees  in  1659,  and  the  subsequent  marriage 
of  Louis  XIV.  with  Maria  Theresa  of  Spain,  in  1660. 


l6  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS. 

Diana  {to  the  Queen). 
Our  woods,  our  rocks,  our  mountains,  all  our  hunters. 
And  my  companions  who  have  to  me  always 
Paid  sovereign  honours,  since  they  have  beheld 
Your  presence  here,  will  know  me  now  no  more  ; 
And  laden  with  their  presents,  come  with  me 

To  bring  this  tribute  to  you,  as  a  mark  .. 

Of  their  allegiance. 

The  swift  inhabitants  of  those  blessed  groves. 
Make  it  their  choice  to  fall  into  your  nets. 
And  only  wish  to  perish  by  your  hands. 
Love,  whose  address  and  countenance  you  wear. 
Alone  with  you  this  wondrous  secret  shares. 

Pan. 
Be  not  surprised,  young  deity,  that  we 
In  this  famed  festival  approach  to  offer 
The  choice  of  what  our  pastures  can  bestow. 
For  if  our  flocks  their  herbage  taste  in  peace, 
'Tis  to  your  charms  that  happiness  we  owe. 

After  these  verses  had  been  spoken,  a  great  table  was  seen,  shaped  like 
a  half  moon,  concave  on  the  side  on  which  they  were  to  serve,  and 
adorned  with  flowers  on  the  convex  side. 

Thirty-six  violin  players,  very  well  dressed,  were  behind  on  a  little 
stage,  whilst  Messieurs  de  la  Marche  and  Parfait,  father,  brother,  and  son, 
controllers- general,  by  the  names  of  Plenty,  Joy,  Cleanliness,  and  Good- 
cheer,  caused  the  aforesaid  table  to  be  covered  by  Pleasures,  Sports, 
Smiles,  and  Delights. 

Their  Majesties  sat  down  in  the  following  order,  which  prevented  all 
the  confusion  that  might  have  arisen  about  precedence  . 

The  Queen-mother  ^  was  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  had  at 
her  right  hand — The  King,  Mademoiselle  d' Alencon^  Madame  la  Prin- 
cesses Mademoiselle  (TElbett/,^  Madame  de  Bethune?'^  Madame  la 
duchess  de  Crequl^  Monsieur,**  Madame  la  duchesse  de  Saint- Aignan,^ 

**See  Vol.  I.,  page  402,  note  i. 

'♦Mademoiselle  d'Alencon,  daughter  of  Gaston  or  France,  duke  of  Orleans,  and 
of  Marguerite  de  Lorraine,  was  bom  in  1646.  married,  in  1667,  Louis  Joseph  de 
Lorraine,  duke  of  Guise,  and  died  in  1696. 

*  Madame  la  Princesse  was  the  name  given  at  court  to  Claire-Clemence  de  Maille, 
marchioness  of  Breze,  who  had  married,  in  1641,  Louis  II.,  prince  de  Conde,  called 
the  Grand  Conde.  Since  the  sixteenth  century,  the  princes  of  Conde  were  called 
Monsieur  le  Prince. 

•*  Mademoiselle  d'Elbeuf,  Anne  Elisabeth  de  Lorraine,  was  the  daughter  of 
Charles  de  Lorraine,  third  of  that  name,  duke  d'Elbeuf,  and  of  his  first  wife, 
Anne  Elisabeth  de  Lannoi,  widow  of  the  count  de  la  Roche-Guyon.  Mademoiselle 
d'Elbeuf,  born  in  1649,  married,  in  1669,  Charles  Henri  de  Lorraine,  count  de 
Vaudemont. 

^  Anne  Marie  de  Beauvillier  was  the  wife  of  Hippolyte  de  Bethune,  count  de 
Selles  and  marquis  de  Cabris,  and  dame  d'ataur  to  the  queen.  She  died  in  1688, 
a  widow,  at  the  age  of  seventy-eight  years. 

*8  Armande  de  Saint-Gelais,  a  daughter  of  the  lord  de  Lansac,  marquis  de  Balon, 
was  the  wife  of  Charles  III.,  duke  de  Crequi,  peer  of  France,  prince  de  Poix,  first 
gentleman  of  the  chamber  to  the  King,  and  governor  of  Paris. 

^  Monsieur  was  the  title  of  the  eldest  brother  of  the  king.  He  married,  first, 
Henrietta  of  England,  a  sister  of  Charles  II.,  and,  after  her  death  (1670),  Charlotte 
Elizabeth  of  Bavaria.  He  was  said  to  be  a  good  general,  and  gained  a  brilliant 
victory  over  the  Prince  of  Orange  at  Cassel,  in  1676,  which  made  Louis  XIV.  so 
jealous  that  he  never  gave  his  brother  any  other  military  command.  He  died  sud- 
denly at  Saint-Cloud  in  1701. 

*"  Madame  la  duchesse  de  Saint-Aignan,  whose  maiden  name  was  Antoinette 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  VJ 

Madame  la  marechale  du  Plessis*^  Madame  la  marechale  (P Etampes ,*^ 
Madame  de  Gourdon,^  Madame  de  Montespan,^  Madam  d' Humieres*^ 
Mademoiselle  de  Brancas,*^  Madame  d' Armagnac  *'^  Madame  la  comtesse 
de  Soissons*^  Madame  la  princesse  de  Bade,^"*  Mademoiselle  de  Grancey^ 
On  the  other  side  were  seated  the   Queen,^^  Madame  de  Carignan-''^ 


Servien,  was  the  first  wife  of  Francois  de  Beauvillier,  duke  of  Saint-Aignan,  whom 
she  married  in  1633.  She  died  in  1680,  and  her  husband  married  again  six  months 
after  her  death.     Madame  de  Sevigne  speaks  of  this  in  her  letters. 

*l  Colombe  de  Charron  was  the  wife  of  Cesar  de  Choiseul,  count,  and  afterwards, 
duke  de  Plessis-Praslin,  marshal  of  France,  who  died  in  1675,  seventy-eight  years 
old.  This  lady,  known  as  the  marechale  du  Plessis,  had  great  influence  at  court, 
because  her  husband  had  been  governor  of  Philip  of  France,  duke  of  Orleans. 

^  Madame  la  marechale  d'  Etampes,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  marquis  de  Praslin, 
marshal  of  France,  and  whose  maiden  name  was  Catherine  Blance  de  Choiseul, 
had  married,  in  1610,  Jacques  d'Etampes,  called  the  marshal  de  la  Ferte  d'Imbault, 
who  died  in  1668,  seventy-eight  years  old.  She  was  nearly  as  old  as  her  husband, 
was  called  at  court /a  wzar^cAa/^  d'Estampes,  and  was  first  maid  of  honour  to 
Henrietta  of  England,  duchess  of  Orleans. 

^  Madame  de  Gourdon  belonged  to  the  household  of  Madame,  duchess  of  Or- 
leans, after  whose  death  she  was  falsely  accused  of  having  poisoned  her. 

*•  Francoise  Athenais  de  Rochechouart,  daughter  of  Gabriel  de  Rochechouart, 
duke  de  Mortemart,  married,  in  1663,  Henri  Louis  de  Pardaillan  de  Gondrin, 
marquis  de  Montespan,  and  became  soon  after  this  dame  du  palais  to  the  queen. 
She  was  first  the  confidante,  and  afterwards  the  rival,  of  Mademoiselle  de  la  Val- 
liere.  In  1668,  Madame  de  Montespan  became  the  mistress  of  the  King,  and  lived 
long  enough  "  to  point  a  moral  and  adorn  a  tale." 

*^  Louise  Antoinette  Therese  de  la  Chatre,  daughter  of  Edme  de  la  Chatre,  count 
of  Nancei,  married,  in  1653,  Louis  de  Crevant,  marquis  d'Humieres,  who  was  lieu- 
tenant-general, and  became,  in  1668,  marshal  of  France.  Madame  de  Sevigne 
mentions  him  in  her  letters. 

*8  Mademoiselle  de  Brancas,  according  to  the  researches  of  the  eminent  French 
litterateur ,  Paul  Lacroix,  made  kindly  and  specially  for  this  edition,  is  Marie  de 
Brancas,  daughter  of  count  Charles  de  Brancas,  who  married,  in  1667,  Alphonse- 
Henri-Charles  de  Lorraine,  prince  d'Harcourt,  and  became  then  dame  du  palais. 

*'  Madame  d'Armagnac,  whose  maiden  name  was  Marguerite-Phillipe  de  Cam- 
bout,  was  the  widow  of  Antoine  de  1' Age,  duke  de  Puy-Laurens,  and  had  married 
again  Henri  de  Lorraine,  count  d'Armagnac,  second  son  of  Charles  de  Lorraine, 
first  of  that  name,  duke  d'Elbeuf.     She  died  in  1674. 

<8  Madame  la  comtesse  de  Soissons,  Olympe  Mancini,  the  niece  of  Cardinal 
Mazarin,  was  born  at  Rome  in  1640.  She  inspired  a  great  passion  in  Louis  XIV. 
when  he  was  very  young,  but  she  married,  in  1657,  the  count  de  Soissons.  In  1664, 
she  was  made  grand-mistress  of  the  household  of  the  queen,  and  was  exiled  from  the 
court  the  following  year,  on  account  of  an  intrigue  which  she  had  planned  against 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  whom  she  could  never  forgive  for  having  become  mis- 
tress to  the  King. 

**  Madame  la  Princesse  de  Bade  was  Louise  Christine  de  Savoie,  daughter  of 
Thomas  de  Savoie,  prince  de  Carignan,  and  of  Marie  de  Bourbon-Soissons.  She 
married,  in  1635,  Ferdinand  Maximilien,  marquis  of  Baden,  who  left  her  and  her 
son  behind  in  France,  five  years  after  his  marriage.  She  was  called  princesse  de 
Bade,  as  being  a  daughter  of  the  prince  of  Carignan. 

*"  Mademoiselle  de  Grancey,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Jacques  Rouxel,  count  de 
Grancey,  marshall  of  France,  was  afterwards  known  as  countess  de  Grancey. 

*'  Maria  Theresa  of  Austria,  born  at  the  Escurial,  in  Spain,  in  1638,  daughter  of 
Philip  IV.,  King  of  Spain,  and  of  Elizabeth  of  France,  married  Louis  XIV.,  in 
1660,  and  suffered  all  her  life  long,  her  husband's  marital  infidelities  without  com- 
plaining. She  was  appointed  regentess  in  1672,  when  the  King  started  for  the  Dutch 
wars,  and  died  in  1683.     Of  her  six  children,  only  one  survived  her. 

*'  Madame  de  Carignan's  name  was  Marie  de  Bourbon,  daughter  of  Charles,  count 
de  Soissons.  She  had  married,  in  1624,  Thomas  Francois  de  Savoie,  prince  de 
Carignan,  who  died  in  1656.  She  returned  then  to  the  court  of  France,  and  died  in 
1692.  Her  eldest  son  continued  the  branch  of  the  princes  of  Carignan ;  her  second 
son,  Eugene  Maurice,  the  branch  of  the  Soissons. 

VOL.  II.  ,. 


l8  THE  PRINCESS  OF  EJ.IS. 

Madame  de  Fleix^  Madame  la  duchesse  de  Foix^  Madame  de  Brancas,^^ 
Madame  de  Froulay^  Madame  la  duchesse  de  Navailles,^''  Mademoiselle 
d' Ardennes^  Mademoiselle  de  Coetlogon^^  Madame  de  Crussol,^  Ma- 
dame de  Montausier^^  Madame^  Madame  la  princesse  Benedicte^  Ma- 
dam la  Duchesse^  Madame  de  Rouvroy^  Mademoiselle  de  la  Mothe,^ 
Madame  Marse^"^  Mademoiselle  de  la    Valliere^  Mademoiselle  d'Ar- 

**  Marie-Claire  de  Baufremont,  first  lady  of  honour  to  the  Queen  Anne  of  Austria, 
married,  in  1637,  Jean-Baptiste-Gaston  de  Foix,  count  de  Fleix,  after  whose  death, 
in  1646,  she  was  always  called  countess  de  Fleix.  She  was  held  in  great  considera- 
tion by  Louis  XIV. 

6*  There  was  no  duchess  de  Foix  in  1664 ;  but  there  was  a  countess  of  Foix,  who 
took  the  title  of  duchesse, — a  title  which  no  one  disputed  with  her.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Madeleine  Charlotte  d'Ailli  d' Albert,  daughter  of  Henri-Louis,  dulce  de 
Chaulnes,  and  she  was  married  to  Gaston-Jean-Baptiste  de  Foix  et  de  Candale, 
whom  she  preceded  to  the  tomb  by  four  months. 

65  It  is  not  easy  to  state  exactly  who  was  the  real  Madame  de  Brancas,  for  at  that 
time  there  were  two  branches  of  the  family  of  Brancas,  the  Forcalquier-Cereste 
and  the  Brancas-Villars,  who  both  figured  at  the  entertainments  given  by  Louis 
XIV.  We  believe,  however,  that  the  lady  mentioned  here  was  Suzanne  Garnier, 
wife  of  Charles,  count  de  Brancas,  uncle  and  father-in-law  of  Louis  de  Brancas, 
duke  de  Villars. 

5*  Madame  de  Froulay,  widow  of  Charles,  count  de  TrovAay ,  grand-mareclial  ties 
logis  of  the  King,  was  a  very  intriguing  busybody,  who  at  last  rendered  herself 
obnoxious  to  Louis  XIV. 

67  Madame  la  duchesse  de  Navailles  was  the  daughter  of  Charles  de  Beauveau, 
count  de  Neuillan,  and  married,  in  1651,  Philippe  de  Montault-Benac,  due  de 
Navailles,  peer  and  marshal  of  France.  She  was  one  of  the  ladies-in-waiting  to 
the  Queen  Anne  of  Austria. 

^  Mademoiselle  d' Ardennes  belonged  certainly  to  the  family  of  the  Rommilles  in 
Brittany,  who  were  lords  d' Ardennes.  She  was  most  likely  maid  of  honour  to  the 
Queen. 

6"  Mademoiselle  Louise  Philippe  de  Coetlogon,  maid  of  honour  to  the  Queen,  was 
afterwards  married  to  the  marquis  de  Cavoye. 

*"  Madame  de  Crussol  was  married,  March  16th,  1664,  to  Emmanuel  de  Crussol, 
a  son  of  the  duke  d'Usez  ;  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  the  duke  de  Montausier, 
and  her  maiden  name  was  Julie  Marie  de  Sainte  Maure. 

*l  Madame  de  Montausier,  the  celebrated  Julie  of  the  hotel  Rambouillet,  whose 
real  name  was  Julie  Lucie  d'Angennes,  marchioness  of  Rambouillet  and  Pisani, 
governess  of  the  dauphin,  and  lady  of  honour  to  the  Queen. 

®  For  Madame,  see  Introductory  Notice  to  The  School  for  Wives,  Vol.  I. 

•3  Madame  la  princesse  Benedicte  belonged  most  probably  to  some  branch  of  the 
house  of  France.     I  have,  however,  not  been  able  to  discover  who  she  was. 

**  Madame  la  Duchesse  had  been,  for  a  year  (1663),  the  wife  of  Henry -Jules  de 
Bourbon,  duke  d'Enghein,  and  was  called,  according  to  custom,  Madame  la 
Duchesse.     She  was  the  daughter  of  Edward  of  Bavaria,  palatine  of  the  Rhine. 

*5  Madame  de  Rouvroy  was  unmarried  in  1664,  when  the  fetes  at  Versailles  were 
given,  and  belonged  to  the  family  of  the  duke  of  St.  Simon.  She  was  maid  of  honour 
to  the  Queen,  and  married  the  count  de  St.  Vallier  in  1675.  Mad.  de  Sevigne 
speaks  of  her  and  her  mother  in  her  letters. 

*8  Mademoiselle  de  la  Mothe,  daughter  of  the  marshal  Antoinede  la  Mothe,  mar- 
quis d'Houdancourt,  was  maid  of  honour  to  the  Queen,  and  afterwards  duchess  de 
la  Vieuville. 

<"  Madame  de  Marsfi.  I  have  been  unable  to  discover  who  this  lady  was  :  most 
likely  a  maid  of  honour  or  lady  in  waiting  on  the  Queen.  In  Burgundy  there  was 
a  lordship  de  Marze,  belonging  to  the  noble  family  of  Nanton. 

«*  Mademoiselle  Louise  Francoise  de  La  Baume  Le  Blanc  de  la  Valliere,  the  king's 
present  mistress,  had,  only  five  months  before,  been  confined  of  her  first  child, 
and  sought,  afterwards,  by  a  cloistral  penance  of  twenty  years,  to  redeem  the  mis- 
take of  having  loved  that  coarse  and  egotistical  voluptuary,  Louis  XIV.  She  was 
born  at  Tours  in  1644,  and  was  maid  of  honour  to  Madame  in  1664.  In  1667,  the 
property  of  La  Valliere  was  made  a  duche-pairie  in  favour  of  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Valliere.  and  of  her  child./?.'"''  leeritimee  de  France,  who  afterwards  became  prin- 
cess de  Conti.     Charles  II.,  King  of  England,   who  liked  to  imitate  Louis  XIV.  as 


THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  I9 

tigny,^  Mademoiselle  du  Bellay}^  Mademoiselle  de  Dampierre^^  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Fiennes'^. 

The  splendour  of  this  collation  surpasses  all  that  could  be  written  of  it, 
as  well  for  its  abundance,  as  for  the  delicacy  of  the  things  that  were 
served  up.  It  formed,  likewise,  the  finest  object  for  the  gratification  of 
the  senses ;  for,  in  the  night-time,  near  the  verdure  of  those  palisades,  a 
great  number  of  candlesticks  painted  green  and  silver,  each  of  them 
holding  twenty-four  tapers,  and  two  hundred  flambeaux  of  white  wax, 
held  by  as  many  masked  persons,  gave  a  light  almost  as  great  as,  and 
more  agreeable  than,  daylight.  All  the  knights,  with  their  helmets  covered 
with  plumes  of  different  colours,  and  their  tilting  dresses,  leaned  on  the 
barriers ;  and  the  great  number  of  officers,  richly  clad  who  waited  at 
table,  enhanced  its  beauty,  and  rendered  that  ring  an  enchanted  place ; 
whence,  after  the  collation,  their  Majesties  and  all  the  court  went  out  by 
a  portico  opposite  the  lists,  and  in  a  great  number  of  very  comfortable 
carriages,  took  their  way  to  the  castle. 

The  Second  Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

On  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  their  Majesties  went  to  another  ring, 
surrounded  by  palisades  like  the  former,  and  in  the  same  line  still  pro- 
jecting towarda  the  lake,  where  the  palace  of  Alcina  was  supposed  to  be 
built. 

The  plan  of  this  second  feast  was  that  Rogero  and  the  knights  of  his 
troop,  after  having  performed  wonders  in  the  lists,  which  by  order  of  the 
fair  magician  had  been  held  in  honour  of  the  Queen,  should  continue  in 
the  same  manner,  the  following  diversion ;  and  that  the  floating  island 
not  having  left  the  French  shore,  they  might  afford  her  Majesty  the  plea- 
sure of  a  comedy,  of  which  the  scene  was  laid  in  Elis. 

The  King  then  caused,  with  surprising  expedition,  the  whole  ring  to  be 
covered  with  cloths,  shaped  hke  a  dome,  to  protect  against  the  wind  the 
great  number  of  flambeaux  and  wax  lights  which  were  to  light  up  the 
theatre,  of  which  the  decorations  were  very  pleasing.     They  then  repre- 

well  as  he  could,  bestowed  a  similar  reward  upon  Barbara  Villiers,  countess  of 
Castlemain,  for  similar  services  rendered  (see  Introductory  Notice  to  Love  is  the 
Best  Doctor).  Louis  le  Grand  appears  to  have  acquired  the  name  of  "great," 
solely  on  account  of  his  indomitable  will,  which  showed  itself  above  all  in  a  disre- 
gard for  the  feelings  of  others,  in  his  voracious  appetite,  in  the  repeated  gratifica- 
tion of  his  brutal  passions,  in  the  number  of  his  mistresses  and  bastards,  in  his 
cravings  for  swallowing  medicine,  and  finally,  in  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of 
Nantes,  and  his  devotee  drivellings,  by  which  he  seemed  to  wish  to  cheat  Heaven, 
as  he  had  cheated  posterity,  out  of  the  nickname  of  "  Grand,"  by  a  sham  assump- 
tion of  dignity.  In  justice  to  Mons.  Paul  I-acroix,  whom  I  know  to  entertain  other 
opinions  in  regard  to  Louis  XIV.,  I  beg  to  state  these  remarks  on  the  Grand  Mon- 
argue  are  mine. 

^  Mademoiselle  d'Artigny  belonged  probably  to  the  family  de  Guast,  who  came 
from  the  Comtat  Venaissin,  in  which  the  name  and  lordship  of  d'Artigny  are  fonnd. 
She  was  most  likely  one  of  the  maids  of  honour  to  the  Queen. 

'"  Mademoiselle  du  Bellay,  or  rather  de  Belloy,  was  probably  one  of  the  maids  of 
honour  to  the  queen,  and  belonged  to  the  ancient  and  illustrious  family  of  de  Belloy, 
of  which  a  great  many  representatives  were  in  the  King's  and  Queen's  retinue. 

'1  Mademoiselle  de  Dampierre,  was  a  maid  of  honour  to  the  Queen,  and  after- 
wards married  to  Alphonse  de  Moreuil,  first  gentleman  of  the  chamber  to  the 
Prince  de  Conde. 

'2  Mademoiselle  de  Fienne's  real  name  was  Mademoiselle  de  Fruges  ;  but  she 
took  the  first  title  because  she  belonged  to  that  noble  house.  She  married  Henri 
Gamier,  count  des  Chapelles,  governor  of  Montargis,  and  would  never  take  the 
name  of  her  husband.     She  was  maid  of  honour  to  the  Queen. 


20  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS. 

sented  The  Princess  of  Elis^^  as  well  as  six  interludes.  Whilst  the 
shepherds  and  shepherdesses  were  singing  and  dancing  at  the  end  of  the 
sixth  interlude,  there  rose,  from  underneath  the  stage,  a  great  tree,  on 
which  were  sixteen  fauas,  eight  of  whom  played  on  the  flute,  and  the 
others  on  the  violin,  with  the  most  agreeable  harmony.  Thirty  violins 
answered  them  from  the  orchestra,  as  well  as  six  harpsichords  and  the- 
orbos. 

Four  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  came  and  danced  a  very  fine 
entree,''^  in  which  the  fauns,  who  had  come  down  from  the  tree,  mingled 
from  time  to  time.  This  whole  scene  was  so  grand,  so  busy,  and  so 
agreeable,  that  no  more  beautiful  ballet  was  ever  seen. 

Thus  the  amusements  of  this  day,  which  all  the  court  praised  no  less 
than  those  of  the  preceding,  ended  most  advantageously,  every  one  going 
away  well  satisfied,  and  kaving  great  expectations  of  the  sequel  of  so 
complete  a  festival. 

TTie  Third  Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

The  more  they  advanced  towards  the  great  round  water,  representing 
the  lake,  on  which  formerly  the  palace  of  Alcina  was  built,  the  nearer 
they  came  to  the  end  of  the  amusements  of  the  Enchanted  Island,  as  if 
it  had  not  been  fit  that  so  many  valiant  knights  shoulc}  remain  away 
any  longer  in  an  idleness  which  would  have  wronged  their  glory. 

Therefore,  always  following  the  first  plan,  it  was  pretended  that,  Heaven 
having  resolved  to  set  free  these  warriors,  Alcina  had  some  forebodings  of 
it,  which  filled  her  with  terror  and  uneasiness.  She  resolved  to  do  all  she 
could  to  prevent  such  a  misfortune,  and  to  fortify,  by  all  possible  means, 
a  place  which  might  secure  her  entire  repose  and  joy. 

Within  this  round  lake,  of  which  the  size  and  shape  were  extraordinary, 
was  a  rock  situated  in  the  middle  of  an  island,  filled  with  different  ani- 
mals, as  if  they  would  forbid  the  entry  of  it. 

Two  other  islands,  longer,  but  not  so  wide,  were  on  both  sides  of  the 
first,  and  all  three,  as  well  as  the  banks  of  the  lake,  were  so  well  lit  up 
that  there  seemed  to  arise  a  new  day  amidst  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

As  soon  as  their  Majesties  had  arrived  and  taken  their  places,  one  of 
the  two  islands  which  were  by  the  sides  of  the  first  was  wholly  filled  with 
violin-players,  very  well  dressed.  The  opposite  island  was  at  the  same 
time  filled  with  trumpeters  and  kettle-drummers,  whose  dresses  were  no 
less  rich. 

But  what  was  more  surprising  was  to  see  Alcina  (Mademoiselle  Duparc) 
issue  from  behind  a  rock,  bom  by  a  sea  monster  of  prodigious  size.  Two 
of  her  nymphs,  called  Celia  (Mademoiselle  Du  Brie)  and  Dirce  (Mademoi- 
selle Moli^re),  followed  her ;  and,  placing  themselves  on  each  side  upon 
large  whales,  approached  the  bank  of  the  lake ;  while  Alcina  began  to 
recite  the  following  verses,  which  her  companions  answered,  and  which 
were  in  praise  of  the  Queen,  mother  of  the  King. 

Alcina,  Cklia,  Dircb. 

Alcina.  You  who  both  share  my  happy  lot. 
Come  weep  with  me  in  this  extremity. 

Celia.  Why  such  alarms  so  unexpectedly  ? 
What  draws  such  floods  of  tears  from  those  bright  eyes  T 

TSIn  the  official  description  of  The  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island,  Moliere's 
comedy,  "The  Princess  of  Elis,  is  placed  here.  I  have  printed  it  at  the  end  of  this 
Introductory  Notice. 

MSee  Prefatory  Memoir,  Vol.  I. 


THE  PRINCESS  OF   ELIS.  zi 

Alcina.  I  can't  even  think  to  speak  on't  without  trembling. 
'Midst  the  dark  horrors  of  a  threatening  dream, 
A  spectre  with  a  hideous  voice  declared 
That  hell  no  longer  aids  me  with  its  force. 
That  a  celestial  power  arrests  its  aid. 
And  that  this  day  for  me  shall  be  the  last. 
All  the  malignant  influence  of  the  stars. 
Which  adverse  reigned  ascendant  at  my  birth. 
And  all  misfortunes  which  my  art  had  promised. 
This  dream  foreshadowed  in  such  lively  colours. 
That  ceaseless  to  my  waking  eyes  it  offers 
Melissa's  power  and  Bradamant's  good  fortime. 
These  evils  I  foresaw,  but  the  dear  pleasures. 
Which  here  seemed  even  to  forestal  our  wishes ; 
Our  lofty  palaces,  our  fields,  our  gardens. 

The  pleasing  converse  of  our  dear  companions,  i 

Our  songs  and  sports,  the  concerts  of  the  birds, 
The  zephyr's  fragrant  breath,  the  murmuring  waters. 
The  sweet  adventures  of  our  tender  loves. 
Made  me  forget  those  fatal  auguries  ; 
When  that  dire  dream,  which  still  distracts  my  senses. 
With  so  much  fiiry  brought  'em  to  my  mind. 
Methinks  I  see  my  troops  each  moment  routed. 
My  guards  all  slaughtered,  and  my  prisons  forced, 
A  thousand  lovers  by  my  art  transformed. 
Who  bent  on  my  destruction  full  of  rage. 
Quit,  all  at  once,  their  trunks  and  leafy  dwellings 
'To  take  a  righteous   vengeance  upon  me ; 
And  last  methinks  I  see  my  dear  Rogero 
Ready  to  shake  off  my  despised  chains. 

Celia.  Fear  in  your  breast  has  gained  the  upper  hand. 
You  reign  sole  here  ;  for  you  alone  they  sigh  ; 
Nought  interrupts  the  course  of  your  contentment. 
But  plaintive  accents  of  your  moiu-nfiil  lovers. 
Logistilla's^  troops  driven  from  our  fields 
Still  quake  with  fear,  hidden  in  their  far  mountains  ; 
And  even  Melissa's  name,  unheard  of  here 
Is  only  by  your  aug'ries  known  to  us. 

Dirce.  Ah  !  let  us  not  deceive  ourselves,  this  phantom 
Held,  this  last  night,  the  same  discourse  with  me. 

Alcina.  Alas  !  who  then  can  doubt  of  otur  misfortunes  ? 

Celia.  I  see  a  sure  and  easy  remedy  ; 
A  queen  appears,  whose  most  auspicious  aid 
Will  guard  us  from  the  efforts  of  Melissa. 
The  goodness  of  this  queen  is  highly  praised. 
'Tis  said  her  heart,  whose  constancy  despised 
The  insolence  of  the  rebellious  waves,'* 
Is  ever  open  to  her  subjects'  vows. 

Alcina.  'Tis  true,  I  see  her.     In  this  pressing  danger 
Let  us  endeavour  to  engage  her  succour. 
Let's  tell  her  that  the  public  voice  proclaims 
The  charming  beauties  of  her  royal  soul. 
Say  that  her  virtue,  higher  than  her  rank. 
Adorns  the  lustre  of  her  noble  blood  ; 
And  that  our  sex's  glory  she  has  borne  , 

So  far,  that  times  to  come  will  scarce  believe  it. 
That  her  great  heart,  fond  of  the  public  good. 
Gives  her  a  generous  contempt  of  dangers  ; 
Proof  against  ought  that  may  befall  herself. 
She  apprehends  for  nothing  but  the  state. 
Say  that  her  benefits  profiisely  poured. 
Gain  her  the  love  and  rev'rence  of  mankind, 

'S  Logistilla  is  a  good  fairy,  and  the  sister  of  the  wicked  enchantress  Alcina. 
'•  This  is  an  alhision  to  the   troubles  of  the  Fronde  during  the  minority  of 
Louis  XIV. 


22  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS. 

That  even  the  shadow  of  an  ill  that  threats  her 
Is  cause  enough  to  put  the  world  in  mourning. 
Say  that  at  the  acme  of  an  absolute  power. 
Her  grandeur  without  pride  or  pomp  appears ; 
That  in  most  dangerous  times  her  constant  prudence 
Has  fearless  the  prerogative  supported ;  ~ 
And  in  the  happy  calm  gained  by  her  labours 
Restores  it  to  her  son  without  regret. 
Say,  with  what  great  respect,  with  what  complaisance. 
That  glorious  son  rewards  her  for  her  cares. 
Let's  laud  the  just  laws,  and  the  life-long  labours 
Of  that  same  son,  the  greatest  of  all  monarchs; 
And  how  that  mother,  fortunately  fruitful, 
•  Giving  but  twice,  gave  so  much  to  the  world." 

In  fine,  the  more  to  move  her  to  compassion. 
Let's  use  the  eloquence  of  sighs  and  tears, 
Then  we  amidst  our  greatest  pangs  may  find 
A  peaceful  refuge  at  her  royal  feet. 

DiRCB.  I  know  her  heart,  magnificently  generous. 
Does  kindly  listen  to  the  voice  of  misery ; 
But  yet  she  ne'er  exerted  all  her  power. 
Unless  to  shield  the  innocent  from  wrong ; 
I  know  she  all  things  can,  but  dare  not  think 
She'll  stoop  so  low  as  to  defend  our  cause. 
She  may  have  been  informed  of  our  soft  errors. 
And  nothing  is  more  clashing  with  her  conduct ; 
Her  well-known  zeal  for  piety  will  render 
Our  interests  odious  to  her  spotless  virtue  ; 
And  far  from  growing  less  at  her  approach 
My  fear  redoubling  chills  my  troubled  spirits. 

Alcina.  Oh  !  my  own  fear's  sufficient  to  afflict  me. 
Do  not  augment  my  grief,  but  try  to  soothe  it. 
To  fiimish  my  dejected  soul,  with  means 
Of  warding  off  the  ills  that  threaten  it. 
Meanwhile  let  all  the  palace  guards  be  doubled. 
And  if  there  be  no  sanctuary  for  us. 
Let  us  in  our  despair  our  comfort  seek, 
Nor  yield  ourselves  at  least  without  resistance. 

When  they  had  finished,  and  Alcina  had  gone  out  to  double  the  guards 
of  the  palace,  a  concert  of  violins  was  heard,  during  which  the  front  of 
the  palace  opened  with  wonderful  art,  and  towers  rose  to  view,  whilst  four 
giants  of  great  size  appeared  with  four  dwarfs,  who,  by  the  contrast  of 
their  little  stature,  made  that  of  the  giants  seem  still  more  excessive.  To 
these  giants  was  committed  the  guard  of  the  palace,  and  by  them  began 
the  first  entree. 

Ballet  of  the  Palace  of  Alcina. 

The  first  entree  was  composed  of  four  giants  and  four  dwarfs:  the 
second,  of  eight  Moors,  to  whom  the  guard  of  the  interior  was  entrusted 
by  Alcina,  and  who  carefully  visited  it,  each  having  two  flambeaux. 

The  third  entree.  Meanwhile  some  lover's  quarrel  prompted  six  of  the 
knights  whom  Alcina  kept  near  her  to  attempt  to  get  out  of  the  palace ; 
but  fortune  not  seconding  the  endeavours  they  made,  in  their  despair  they 
were  overcome,  after  a  sharp  combat,  by  as  many  monsters  which  attack 
them. 

Fourth  entree.  Alcina,  alarmed  by  this  accident,  invokes  anew  all  her 
spirits,  and  demands  their  aid ;  two  of  them  present  themselves  before 
her,  leaping  with  wonderful  force  and  agility. 

'T  Another  allusion  to  the  troubles  of  the  Fronde. 

"  Louis  XIV.  had  only  one  brother,  the  Duke  of  Orleans. 


THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  23 

Fifth  entree.  Other  demons  came  and  seemed  to  reassure  the  enchan- 
tress that  they  shall  not  forget  anything  that  may  contribute  to  her  repose. 

Sixth  and  last  entree.  But  hardly  had  she  begun  to  reassure  herself, 
when  she  saw  the  wise  Melissa  appear  under  the  form  of  Atlant,  near 
Rogero  and  some  knights  of  his  train.  She  immediately  hastened  to  hin- 
der her  from  executing  her  intention ;  but  she  came  too  late  ;  Melissa  had 
already  placed  on  the  finger  of  that  brave  knight  the  famous  ring  which 
destroys  enchantments.  Then  thunderclaps,  followed  by  several  flashes 
of  lightning,  portended  the  destruction  of  the  palace,  which  was  immedi- 
ately reduced  to  ashes  by  fireworks,  which  put  an  end  to  this  adventure, 
and  to  the  amusements  of  the  Enchanted  Island.'^ 

It  looked  as  if  Heaven,  Earth,  and  Water  were  all  in  a  fiame,  and  as  if 
the  destruction  of  the  splendid  palace  of  Alcina,  as  well  as  the  liberation 
of  the  knights  she  there  kept  in  prison,  could  be  effected  only  amidst 
prodigies  and  miracles.  The  height  and  number  of  rockets, — those  which 
fell  on  the  shore,  and  those  which  came  out  of  the  water  after  having 
fallen  into  it, — formed  a  spectacle  so  grand  and  magnificent,  that  nothing 
could  better  terminate  the  enchantments,  than  these  fireworks;  which, 
ending  at  last  after  an  extraordinary  length  and  noise,  redoubled  the  loud 
reports  which  had  begun  it. 

Then  all  the  court  withdrew,  and  confessed  that  nothing  could  be  more 
perfect  than  these  three  feasts.  It  is  sufficient  acknowledgment  of  this 
perfection,  to  say  that,  as  each  of  the  three  days  had  its  partisans,  as  every 
one  of  them  had  its  particular  beauties,  none  could  agree  which  ought  to 
bear  away  the  bell ;  although  they  all  agreed  that  they  might  justly  dis- 
pute it  with  all  those  that  ever  had  been  seen  till  then,  and  perhaps  sur- 
pass them. 

The  Fourth  Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island.  ^ 

But  although  the  feasts  properly  belonging  to  the  pleasures  of  the  En- 
chanted Island  were  ended,  yet  all  the  diversions  of  Versailles  were  not  so. 
The  magnificence  and  gallantry  of  the  King  had  reserved  some  for  other 
days,  which  were  no  less  agreeable. 

On  Saturday,  the  loth,  his  Majesty  had  a  mind  to  run  at  heads, — an 
exercise  of  which  few  people  are  ignorant,  which  has  come  to  us  from  Ger- 
many, and  is  well  adapted  for  shewing  a  cavalier's  skill,  as  well  in  managing 
his  horse  in  times  of  war,  as  in  rightly  using  a  lance,  a  dart,  and  a  sword. 
If  there  are  any  who  never  saw  them  run  at,  being  not  so  common  as  the 
ring,  and  brought  hither  only  of  late,  they  may  here  find  a  description  of 
it ;  while  those  who  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  them,  may  bear  with 
so  short  a  narrative. 

The  knights  enter  the  lists  one  after  another  with  lance  in  hand,  and  a 

"  The  names  of  all  the  dancers  are  given  in  the  official  description  ;  but  we  have 
omitted  them,  as  not  possessing  the  smallest  interest  at  the  present  time.  Amongst 
them  appears,  however,  a  certain  Moliere,  who  was  a  professional  dancer  and 
singer,  and  several  times  displayed  his  talents  before  the  King.  He  was  in  Paris 
at  least  ten  years  before  Moliere,  and  has  composed  a  collection  of  songs,  which  is 
printed.  For  more  details  about  this  namesake  of  our  author,  see  a  note  by  the 
Bibliophile  Jacob  in  the  Catalogue  Soleinne,  Vol.  iii.,  9282.  There  had  also  been 
another  Moliere,  called  Francois,  who  died  in  1623,  and  whose  noveX  Polixdne ,  pub- 
lished only  in  1632,  and  to  be  found  in  the  British  Museum,  caused  a  certain  sensa- 
tion in  those  times.     See  Prefatory  Memoir,  Vol.  I. 

*"  The  official  account  of  the  feast  no  longer  separates  the  days  •  but  as  nearly 
all  old  editions  of  Moliere  do  so,  I  have  followed  them. 


24  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS. 

dart  under  the  right  thigh ;  and  after  one  of  them  has  run  and  borne  off  a 
head  of  thick  paste-board  painted,  and  like  a  Turk's,  he  gives  his  lance  to 
a  page,  and,  turning  the  horse  partly  round,  he  returns  at  full  gallop  to  the 
second  head,  which  is  like  a  Moor's  and  as  black,  bears  it  off  with  the 
dart,  with  which  he  strikes  it  as  he  passes;  then  taking  a  javelin  a  little 
different  in  form  from  a  dart,  in  a  third  turn  he  plants  it  in  a  buckler, 
whereon  is  painted  a  Medusa's  head ;  and  ending  his  demi-volt,  he  draws 
his  sword,  wherewith,  as  he  gallops  past,  he  bears  off  a  head  raised  half  a 
foot  from  the  ground ;  then  giving  way  to  another,  he  who  in  his  running 
bears  off  most,  gains  the  prize. 

All  the  courtiers  having  arranged  themselves  behind  a  balustrade  of 
iron  gilt,  which  went  quite  round  the  agreeable  house  of  Versailles,  and 
which  looks  into  the  trench,  where  the  lists  and  the  barriers  were,  the 
King  repaired  thither,  followed  by  the  same  knights  that  ran  at  the  ring. 
The  dukes  de  Saint-Aignan  and  de  Noailles  continued  in  their  former 
offices,  one  of  marshal  of  the  camp,  and  the  other  of  judge  of  the  course. 
Of  these,  many  were  run  very  handsomely  and  successfully ;  but  the 
King's  skill  gained  him  not  only  the  prize  of  the  ladies'  course,  but  like- 
wise that  which  was  given  by  the  queen.  It  was  a  rose  of  diamonds  of 
great  value,  which  the  King  won,  but  freely  gave  to  be  run  for  by  the 
other  knights,  and  for  which  the  marquis  de  Coaslin  contended  with  the 
marquis  de  Soyecourt,  and  gained. 

The  Fifth  Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

On  Sunday,  at  the  King's  Levee,  almost  all  the  conversation  turned  on 
the  fine  running  of  the  preceding  day,  and  occasioned  a  grand  challenge 
between  the  duke  de  Saint-Aignan,  who  had  not  yet  run,  and  the  marquis 
de  Soyecourt.  The  running  was  deferred  till  the  next  day,  because  the 
marshal  duke  de  Grammont,  who  bet  for  the  Marquis,  was  obliged  to  go 
to  Paris,  whence  he  was  not  to  return  till  that  time. 

On  that  afternoon,  the  king  took  all  the  court  to  his  aviary,  which  ex- 
cited great  admiration,  both  by  its  particular  beauties,  and  by  the  almost 
incredible  number  of  birds  of  all  sorts,  amongst  which  were  many  of  great 
rarity.  It  would  be  useless  to  mention  the  collation  which  followed  this 
diversion,  since,  for  eight  successive  days,  every  repast  might  be  esteemed 
one  of  the  greatest  feasts  that  could  be  made.  ^^ 

In  the  evening,  his  Majesty  caused  to  be  represented,  on  one  of  those 
double  theatres  of  his  Salon,  which  his  boundless  ingenuity  had  invented, 
the  very  clever  comedy  of  The  Bores,  (see  Vol.  I.,  p.  297),  written  by  the 
sieur  de  Moli^re,  with  entrees  de  ballet. 

The  Sixth  Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 
The  rumour  of  the  challenge  which  was  to    be  run  on  Monday  the 
twelfth,  caused  an  infinite  niunber  of  bets  of  great  value    to  be  laid; 

*i  It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Louis  XIV.  was  an  omnivorous  eater.  As  an  ex- 
ample of  this,  I  shall  give  a  passage  from  one  of  the  letters  of  the  Princesse  palatine, 
duchess  of  Orleans  :  "  I  have  often  seen  the  king  eat  four  plates-full  of  different 
soups,  a  whole  pheasant,  a  partridge,  a  large  plate- full  of  salad,  some  mutton 
roasted,  with  garlic,  two  good  slices  of  ham,  a  plate-full  of  pastry,  and  then  fruits 
and  sweets."  When  Louis  XIV.  was  seventy  years  old  (1708),  he  dieted  himself  as 
follows,  according  to  the  yournal  de  la  sante  du  Roy  :  "with  some  soup,  with  either 
some  pigeons  or  a  fowl  boiled  in  it,  and  three  roast  fowls,  of  which  he  ate  four  wings, 
the  breasts,  and  one  leg."  Of  course  the  courtiers  tried  to  imitate  biin ;  beace  the 
repeated  mention  of  repasts. 


THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  2$ 

although  that  of  the  two  knights  was  but  a  hundred  pistoles.  And  as  the 
duke,  by  a  happy  boldness,  gave  one  head  to  that  dexterous  marquis, 
several  betted  on  the  latter,  who,  coming  somewhat  late  to  the  King, 
found  a  challenge  to  hasten  him.  This  challenge  being  only  in  prose,  we 
have  not  inserted  here. 

The  duke  de  Saint-Aignan  had  likewise  shown  to  some  of  his  friends, 
as  an  happy  omen  of  his  victory,  these  three  verses : 

TO  THE    LADIES. 

,If,  O  ye  fair,  your  sentiments  agree 

With  mine,  you  shall  confess  this  day,  that  he 

Who  conquers  Soyecourt  conquers  ten  besides — 

still  alluding  to  his  name  of  Guido  the  savage  whom  the  adventure  of  the 
dangerous  island  made  conqueror  over  ten  knights.  ^^  As  soon  as  the 
King  had  dined,  he  conducted  the  queens,  the  duke  and  duchess  of 
Orleans,  and  all  the  ladies,  to  a  place  where  a  lottery  was  to  be  drawn, 
that  nothing  might  be  wanting  to  the  gallantry  of  these  entertainments. 
The  prizes  were  precious  stones,  furniture,  plate  and  similar  things  ;  and 
though  chance  decided  these  presents,  yet  it  certainly  fell  in  with  his 
Majesty's  desire,  when  it  gave  the  great  prize  to  the  Queen,  Every  one 
left  that  place  very  well  pleased,  to  go  to  see  the  running  which  was 
about  to  begin. 

At  length  Guido  and  Oliviero  appeared  in  the  lists,  at  five  o'clock  in 
the  evening,  very  handsomely  dressed  and  well  mounted. 

The  King  and  all  the  court  honored  them  with  their  presence,  and  his 
Majesty  himself  read  the  conditions  of  the  running,  that  there  might  be 
no  difference  between  them.  The  duke  de  Saint-Aignan  was  fortunate, 
for  he  gained  the  day. 

At  night,  his  Majesty  caused  to  be  performed  the  first  three  acts  of  a 
comedy  called  Tartuffe,  which  the  sieur  de  Moli^re  had  made  against 
the  h)T)0crites.  But  although  the  King  thought  it  very  diverting,  he 
found  so  much  conformity  between  those  whom  a  true  devotion  leads  in. 
the  way  to  Heaven,  and  those  whom  a  vain  ostentation  of  good  works 
does  not  hinder  from  committing  evil  ones,  that  his  extreme  delicacy 
in  point  of  religion  could  hardly  bear  that  resemblance  of  vice  and  virtue 
which  might  be  mistaken  for  one  another.  And  although  he  did  not 
doubt  the  good  intentions  of  the  author,  he  forbade  its  being  acted  in 
public,  and  deprived  himself  of  that  pleasure,  so  as  not  to  deceive  others, 
who  were  less  capable  of  a  just  discernment. 

The  Seventh   Day  of  the  Pleasures  of  the  Enchanted  Island. 

On  Tuesday  the  13th,  the  King  was  pleased  again  to  run  at  heads,  as  a 
common  sport,  wherein  he  who  hit  most  was  to  win.  His  Majesty  gained 
anew  the  prize  of  the  course  of  the  ladies,  the  duke  de  Saint-Aignan  that 
of  the  sport;  and  having  had  the  honour  to  enter  the  next  time  into 
competition  with  his  Majesty,  the  incomparable  skill  of  the  King  gained 
him  that  prize  also.  It  was  not  without  unavoidable  astonishment,  that 
<he  King  was  seen  to  gain  four,  whilst  running  twice  to  the  head.  On 
the  same  night  was  played  the  comedy  of  The  forced  Marriage,  which 
was  likewise  the  work  of  the  same  Moli^re.    The  King  then  took  his  way 

88  There  is  in  these  lines  an  allusion  to  the  marquis  de  Soyecourt's  well-known 
prowess  in  other  fields.     See  also  page  10,  note  18. 


26  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS, 

to  Fontainebleau  on  Wednesday  the  14th.  All  the  court  was  so  satisfied 
with  what  they  had  seen,  that  every  one  was  of  opinion  that  it  ought  to 
be  put  in  writing,  to  give  some  idea  of  it  to  those  who  did  not  see  such 
varied  and  agreeable  entertainments,  wherein  were  at  once  to  be  admired 
the  project  and  the  success,  the  liberality  with  the  politeness,  the  multitude 
with  order,  and  the  satisfection  of  all ;  wherein  the  indefatigable  pains  of 
Monsieur  Colbert  were  employed  through  all  these  diversions,  notwith- 
standing his  important  affairs ;  wherein  the  duke  de  Saint- Aignan  acted, 
as  well  as  invented  the  designs ;  wherein  the  fine  verses  of  the  president 
de  Perigny  in  praise  of  the  queens  were  so  justly  conceived,  so  agreeably 
turned,  and  repeated  with  so  much  art ;  wherein  those  which  M.  de 
Benserade  made  for  the  knights  were  generally  approved;  wherein  the 
great  care  of  M.  Bontemps,  ^  and  the  application  of  M.  de  Launay,  ®*  let 
nothing  that  was  necessary  be  wanting ;  wherein  every  one  so  advan- 
tageously testified  his  design  of  pleasing  the  King,  at  a  time  when  his 
Majesty  himself  thought  of  nothing  but  pleasing ;  and  wherein,  in  a  word, 
all  that  was  seen  will  for  ever  continue  in  the  memoiy  of  the  spectators, 
even  if  care  had  not  been  taken  to  preserve  in  writing  the  remembrance 
of  all  these  wonders. 

**Mons.  Bontemps  was  the  first  valei  de  chambre  of  the  King,  and  afterwards 
became  governor  of  the  castles  of  Versailles  and  Marly.  He  was  th&confidant  and 
favourite  of  Louis  XIV.,  to  whom  he  rendered  many  secret  services.  St.  Simon 
praxes  him  in  his  Memoires. 

•*  M.  de  Launay  was  the  intendant  dts  menui plaisirs  et  affaires  de  la  chambre. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

PERSONAGES    IN   THE   COMEDY. 

Iphitas,  father  to  the  Princess  of  Elis* 

EuRYALUS,  Prince  of  Ithaca. 

Aristomenes,  Prince  of  Messena. 

Theocles,  Prince  of  Pylos. 

Arbates,  governor  to  the  Prince  of  Ithaccu 

Lycas,  attendant  on  Iphitas. 

Moron,  the  Princess' s  fool. 

The  Princess  of  Elis.** 

Aglanta,  cousin  to  the  Princess. 

Cynthia,  cousin  to  the  Princess. 

Phillis,  attendant  on  the  Princess. 


personages  in 

First  Interlude. 

Aurora. 

Lyciscas,  a  huntsman.^ 
Three  Huntsmen,  singing. 
Whippers-in,  dancing. 

Second  Interlude. 

Moron. 
Huntsmen,  dancing. 

Third  Interlude. 

Phillis. 

Moron. 

A  Satyr,  singing. 

Satyrs,  dancing. 


the  interludes. 

Fourth  Interlude. 

Phillis. 

Tircis,  a  singing  shepherd. 

Moron. 

Fifth  Interlude. 

The  Princess. 

Phillis. 

Clim^ne. 

Sixth  Interlude. 

Shepherds  and  Shepherd- 
esses, singing. 

Shepherds  and  Shepherd- 
esses, dancing. 


85  It  has  been  said  in  the  pamphlet  la  Fameuse  comedienne  (See  Intro- 
ductory Notice  to  The  Impromptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  I.,)  that  Madame 
Moli^re,  whilst  acting  the  part  of  the  Princess  of  Elis,  attracted  the  atten- 
tion and  afterwards  responded  to  the  flame,  of  the  Count  de  Lauzun,  and 
also,  perhaps,  to  those  of  the  Abb6  de  Richelieu  and  the  Count  de  Guiche, 
Several  of  Moli^re's  biographers  have  repeated  this  accusation.  M.  Bazin, 
in  his  Notes  historiques  sur  la  Vie  de  Moliere,  has  proved  that  one  of  the 
accused  noblemen  was  at  that  time  in  Hungary,  and  the  other  in  Poland. 

*  This  short  part  was  created  by  Moli&re  himself.  Moliere  acted  also 
the  part  of  Moron. 


THE  PRINCESS   OF  ELIS. 

{LA  PEINCESSE  D'J^LIDE. 


FIRST  INTERLUDE. 

Scene  I. — Aurora. 

When  Love  presents  a  charming  choice 

Respond  to  his  flame,  oh  youthful  fair  ! 

Do  not  affect  a  pride  which  no  one  can  subdue, 

Though  you've  been  told  such  pride  becomes  you  well. 
When  one  is  of  a  lovely  age 
Naught  is  so  handsome  as  to  love. 

Breathe  freely  sighs  for  him  who  faithful  loves 

And  challenge  those  who  wish  to  blame  your  ways. 

A  tender  heart  is  lovely ;  but  a  cruel  maid 

Will  never  be  a  title  to  esteem. 

When  one  is  fair  and  beautiful 
Naught  is  so  handsome  as  to  love. 

Scene  II. — Whippers-in  and  Musicians. 

Whilst  Aurora  was  singing  these  verses,  four  whippers-in 
were  asleep  on  the  grass,  one  of  whom,  called  Lyciscas,  rep- 
resented by  M.  de  Moliere,  an  excellent  actor,  who  had 
inve?ited  the  verses  and  the  whole  comedy,  was  lying  between 
two,  whilst  the  third  was  at  his  feet.  The  other  huntsmen 
were  Messrs.  Estival,  Don,  and  Blondel,  musicians  of  the 
king,  who  had  admirable  voices,  and  who  awoke,  at  Aurora^  s 
call,  and,  as  soon  as  she  had  finished,  sang  in  recitativo. 

29 


30  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [first  interlude. 

Hullo !  hullo !  get  up,  get  up,  get  up !  Everything  must 
be  prepared  for  the  hunting  match.  Hullo  !  get  up  3  get 
up  quickly. 

1  Whip.  Day  to  the  darkest  spots  imparts  its  light. 

2  Whip.  The  air  distils  its  pearls  on  flowers. 

3  Whip.  The  nightingales  begin  their  warbling  notes, 
and  with  their  little  concerts  thrill  the  air. 

All  three.  Come,  come,  get  up !  quick,  get  up !  (^To 
Lyciscas  asleep).  What  is  the  matter,  Lyciscas?  What! 
you  are  snoring  still !  you,  who  promised  to  outstrip 
Aurora  ?  Come,  get  up ;  get  up,  quick  !  Everything 
must  be  prepared  for  the  hunting  match.  Get  up  quickly, 
get  up  !     Make  haste,  get  up  ! 

Lyciscas.  (  Waking).  Zounds,  you  are  terrible  brawlers ! 
You  open  your  throats  early  in  the  morning. 

Musicians.  Do  you  not  see  the  light  beams  everywhere ! 
Come,  get  up,  Lyciscas,  get  up. 

Lyc.  Oh  !  let  me  sleep  yet  a  little  while,  I  entreat  you. 

Mus.  No,  no,  get  up,  Lyciscas,  get  up. 

Lyc.  I  only  ask  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Mus.   Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  get  up,  quick,  get  up. 

Lyc.  Alas  !  I  pray  you. 

Mus.  Get  up. 

Lyc.  a  moment. 

Mus.  Get  up. 

Lyc.  I  beseech  you. 

Mus.  (iet  up. 

Lyc.  Oh! 

Mus.  Get  up. 

Lyc.  I  .   .   . 

Mus.  Get  up. 

Lyc.  I  shall  have  done  immediately. 

Mus.  No,  no,  get  up,  Lyciscas,  get  up.  Everything 
has  to  be  prepared  for  the  hunting  match.  Quickly,  get 
up  ;  make  haste,  get  up. 

Lyc.  Well,  be  quiet ;  I  shall  rise.  You  are  strange 
people  to  torment  me  thus.  You  will  be  the  cause  of  my 
being  unwell  all  day;  for,  do  you  see,  sleep  is  necessary  to 
man,  and  when  one  does  not  sleep  one's  fill,  it  happens .  .  . 
that  .    .    .  one  is  not  .    .    .  {He  falls  asleep  again. 

I  Mus.  Lyciscas ! 


scENK  I.]  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  3! 

2  Mus.  Lyscicas ! 

3  Mus.  Lyciscas! 
All.   Lyciscas ! 

Lyc.  To  the  deuce  with  these  brawlers !  I  wish  your 
throats  were  stopped  with  scalding  porridge.®^ 

All.  Get  up,  get  up ;  make  haste ;  get  up,  quick,  g  : 
up. 

Lyc.   Oh  !  how  wearisome  not  to  sleep  one's  fill ! 

1  Mus.  Soho,  ho  ! 

2  Mus.  Soho,  ho ! 

3  Mus.  Soho,  ho  ! 
All.  Soho,  ho! 

Lyc.  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  Plague  take  the  fellows  with 
their  howlings.  May  the  devil  take  me  if  I  do  not  give 
you  a  good  drubbing  for  this.-  But  what  deuced  enthusi- 
asm possesses  them  to  come  and  caterwaul  in  my  ears  at 
this  rate  ? 

All.  Get  up ! 

Lyc.  Again  ? 

All.   Get  up ! 

Lyc.  The  devil  take  you ! 

All.  Get  up. 

Lyc.  ( Getting  up) .  What !  again  !  Was  there  ever 
such  a  passion  for  singing  ?  Zounds !  I  shall  go  mad ! 
Since  I  am  disturbed,  I  will  not  let  the  others  sleep.  I 
shall  torment  them  as  they  have  done  me.  Come,  soho  ! 
gentlemen,  get  up,  get  up,  quick ;  you  have  been  sleeping 
too  long.  I  shall  make  a  devil  of  a  noise  everywhere. 
(^He  shouts  with  all  his  might').  Get  up,  get  up,  get  up ! 
Come  quick !  Soho,  ho  !  get  up,  get  up !  Everything 
must  be  prepared  for  the  hunt ;  get  up,  get  up !  Lyciscas, 
get  up  !     Soho  !  ho  !  ho !  ho ! 

Lyciscas  having  at  length  risen  with  the  greatest  difficulty, 
and  having  shouted  as  loud  as  he  could,  several  horns  and 
hunting-horns  are  blown,  which,  together  with  the  violins, 
begin  an  entree-tune,  to  which  six  whippers-in  dance  with 
great  precision  and  order,  whilst  winding  their  horns  at  cer- 
tain periods. 

sf  In  Sir  Walter  Scott's  Rob  Roy,  chapter  xxxii.,  Bailie  Nicol  Jarvie 
says :  "  And  I  wish  Mr.  Jarvie's  boots  had  been  fu'  o'  boiling  water  when 
he  drew  them  on  for  sic  a  purpose." 


32  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  i. 

ACT  I. — ^Argument. 

This  hunt  was  prepared  by  the  Prince  of  Elis,  who,  being  of  a  gallant  and 
magnificent  disposition,  and  desirous  that  the  Princess,  his  daughter, 
would  think  of  marriage,  to  which  she  was  very  much  averse,  had  in- 
vited to  his  court  the  Princes  of  Ithaca,  Messena,  and  Pylos,  thinking 
that  whilst  hunting,  which  she  loved  much,  or  during  other  sports, 
chariot-races,  and  tlie  like  displays,  one  of  these  princes  might  perhaps 
please  her,  and  so  become  her  husband. 

Scene  I. 

Euryalus,  Prince  of  Ithaca^  in  love  Tvith  the  Princess  of 
Elis ;  Arbates,  his  governor,  who,  indulgent  to  the  prince' s 
passions  praises  him  in  elegant  phraseology,  instead  of  blam- 
ing  him. 

EuRYALUB,  Arbates. 

Arb.  This  dreamy  silence,  to  which  you  have  accus- 
tomed yourself  so  dolefully,  makes  you  continually  seek 
solitude,  those  deep  sighs  which  come  from  your  heart, 
and  that  gaze  so  full  of  languor,  certainly  say  much  to  one 
of  my  age.  I  believe,  my  lord,  I  understand  the  language ; 
but,  for  fear  of  running  too  great  a  risk,  I  dare  not  be  so 
bold  as  to  explain  it  without  your  leave. 

Eur.  Explain,  explain  with  all  freedom,  Arbates,  these 
sighs,  these  looks,  and  this  mournful  silence.  I  give  you 
leave  to  say  that  love  has  subjected  me  to  its  laws,  and  de- 
fies me  in  its  turn.  I  farther  admit  that  you  make  me 
ashamed  of  the  weakness  of  a  heart  which  suffers  itself  to 
be  overcome. 

Arb.  What,  my  lord,  shall  I  blame  you  for  the  tender 
emotions  with  which  I  now  see  you  inspired?  The  sour- 
ness of  old  age  cannot  embitter  me  against  the  gentle 
transports  of  an  amorous  flame.  Although  my  life  is  near 
its  close,  I  maintain  that  love  suits  well  such  men  as  you ; 
that  the  tribute  paid  to  the  charms  of  a  beautiful  face  is  a 
clear  proof  of  a  beautiful  mind ;  and  that  it  is  not  easy 
for  a  young  prince  to  be  great  and  generous  without  being 
in  love.  It  is  a  quality  I  admire  in  a  monarch.  Tender- 
ness of  heart  is  a  sure  sign  that  everything  may  be  ex- 
pected from  a  prince  of  your  age  as  soon  as  we  perceive 
that  his  soul  is  capable  of  love.  Yes,  that  passion,  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  others,  draws  a  hundred  virtues  in  its 


scENKi.]  ^THE  PRINCESS  OF   ELIS.  33 

train.  It  urges  the  heart  to  noble  deeds,  and  all  great 
heroes  have  felt  its  ardour.  Your  infancy,  my  lord,  was 
spent  under  my  eyes.  I  have  seen  realized  the  expecta- 
tions formed  from  your  virtues.  I  observed  in  you  quali- 
ties which  told  of  the  blood  from  which  you  sprung ;  I 
discovered  in  you  a  fund  of  wit  and  brightness;  I  found 
you  handsome,  great,  and  noble  ;  your  courage  and  your 
abilities  shone  forth  every  day ;  but  I  was  concerned  be- 
cause I  did  not  perceive  any  traces  of  love.  Now  that  the 
pangs  of  an  incurable  wound  show  that  your  soul  is  insen- 
sible to  its  strokes,  I  triumph,  and  my  heart,  full  of  joy, 
looks  upon  you  as  a  finished  prince.^ 

Eur.  If,  for  a  time,  I  defied  the  power  of  love,  alas ! 
my  dear  Arbates,  it  takes  ample  vengeance  for  it  now.  If 
you  knew  the  ills  into  which  my  heart  is  plunged,  you 
yourself  would  wish  that  it  had  never  loved.  For  this  is 
the  fate  that  awaits  me ;  I  love — I  ardently  love  the 
Princess  of  Elis ;  you  know  that  that  pride  which  lurks 
beneath  her  charming  aspect  arms  her  youthful  sentiments 
against  love ;  and  that  she  avoids,  during  this  grand  feast, 
the  crowd  of  lovers  who  strive  to  obtain  her  hand.  Alas  ! 
how  little  truth  is  there  in  the  saying  that  the  being  we 
love  -charms  us  at  first  sight,  and  that  the  first  glance 
kindles  in  us  those  flames  to  which  Heaven  at  our  birth 
destined  our  souls.  On  my  return  from  Argos,  I  passed 
this  way,  and  then  saw  the  Princess.  I  beheld  all  the 
charms  with  which  she  is  endowed,  but  looked  on  them  as 
one  would  look  on  a  fine  statue.  Her  brilliant  youth, 
which  I  observed  carefully,  did  not  inspire  my  soul  with 
one  secret  desire ;  I  quietly  returned  to  the  shores  of 
Ithaca,  without  so  much  as  recalling  her  to  my  mind  for 
two  years.  In  the  meantime,  the  rumour  spread  to  my 
court  that  she  was  known  to  entertain  a  contempt  for 
love ;  it  was  published  everywhere  that  her  proud  spirit 
had  an  unconquerable  aversion  to  marriage,  and  that,  with 
a  bow  in  her  hand,  and  a  quiver  on  her  shoulder,  she 

^  These  verses,  spoken  in  a  festival  given  by  Louis  XIV.  to  please 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Valli^re,  contain  a  very  transparent  allusion  to  the 
monarch's  passion.  Of  course,  many  things  may  be  brought  forward  to 
excuse  Molifere ;  yet,  after  all,  although  we  admire  the  dramatist,  we  have 
not  the  same  feelings  for  the  courtier. 

VOL.   II.  C 


34  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  [acti. 

roamed  through  the  woods  like  another  Diana,  loved 
nothing  but  hunting,  and  caused  all  the  young  heroes  of 
Greece  to  sigh  in  vain.  Admire  our  tempers  and  fate  ! 
What  her  presence  and  beauty  failed  to  do,  the  fame  of 
her  boldness  produced  in  my  heart.  An  unknown  trans- 
port was  born  within  me,  which  I  could  not  master.  Her 
disdain  so  bruited  about  had  a  secret  charm,  which  made 
me  carefully  call  to  remembrance  all  her  features.  Look- 
ing upon  her  with  new  eyes,  I  formed  an  image  of  her 
so  noble,  so  beautiful — picturing  to  myself  so  much  glory, 
and  such  pleasures,  if  I  could  but  triumph  over  her  cold- 
ness, that  my  heart,  dazzled  by  such  a  victory,  saw  its 
glorious  liberty  fade  away.  It  in  vain  resisted  such  a 
bait ;  the  sweetness  of  it  took  such  complete  possession  of 
my  senses  that,  impelled  by  an  invisible  power,  I  sailed  at 
once  from  Ithaca  hither,  concealing  my  ardent  passion 
under  the  pretence  of  wishing  to  be  present  at  these  re- 
nowned sports,  to  which  the  illustrious  Iphitas,  father  of 
the  princess,  has  invited  most  of  the  princes  of  Greece. 

Arb.  But  of  what  use,  my  lord,' are  the  precautions  you 
take ;  and  why  are  you  so  anxious  to  keep  it  a  secret  ? 
You  love  this  illustrious  princess,  you  say,  and  come  to 
signalize  yourself  before  her ;  yet  neither  looks,  words, 
nor  sighs  have  informed  her  of  your  ardent  passion?  I 
cannot,  for  my  part,  understand  this  policy,  which  will 
not  allow  you  to  open  your  heart ;  nor  do  I  see  what  fruit 
can  be  expected  of  a  love  which  avoids  all  modes  of  dis- 
covering itself. 

Eur.  And  what  should  I  gain,  Arbates,  by  avowing  my 
pangs,  but  drawdown  on  myself  the  disdain  of  her  haughty 
soul,  and  throw  myself  into  the  rank  of  those  submissive 
princes,  whose  title  of  lovers  causes  her  to  look  on  them 
as  enemies  ?  You  see  the  kings  of  Messena  and  Pylos  in 
vain  lay  their  hearts  at  her  feet ;  the  lofty  splendour  of 
their  virtues,  accompanied  by  the  most  assiduous  respect, 
is  useless.  This  repulse  of  their  homage  makes  me  con- 
ceal, in  sad  silence,  the  warmth  of  my  love.  I  account 
myself  condemned  in  seeing  her  behaviour  towards  these 
famous  rivals,  and  read  my  own  sentence  in  the  contempt 
she  shows  to  them. 

Arb.  And  it  is  in  this  contempt  and  haughty  humour 


SCENE  I.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  35 

that  your  love  should  see  its  brightest  hope,  since  fortune 
presents  to  you  a  heart  to  conquer,  which  is  defended  only 
by  mere  coldness,  and  does  not  oppose  to  your  passion  the 
deep-rooted  tenderness  of  some  other  engagement.  A 
heart  already  occupied  resists  powerfully  j  but  when  the 
soul  is  free,  it  is  easily  overcome,  and  only  a  little  patience 
is  needed  to  triumph  over  all  the  pride  of  indifference. 
Conceal  no  longer  from  her  the  influence  which  her  eyes 
have  upon  you ;  openly  display  your  passion,  and,  far 
from  trembling  at  the  example  of  others,  fortify  yourself 
with  the  hope  that  you  will  be  successful  because  they 
have  been  repulsed.  Perhaps  you  may  possess  the  secret 
of  touching  her  obdurate  heart,  which  these  princes  have 
not.  And  if,  through  her  imperious  and  capricious  pride, 
you  should  not  meet  with  a  more  propitious  destiny,  it  is 
at  least  a  happiness  in  misfortunes  of  this  kind  to  see  one's 
rivals  rejected  with  oneself 

Eur.  I  am  glad  to  find  that  you  approve  a  declaration 
of  my  passion ;  by  combating  my  reasons,  you  delight  ray 
soul.  I  wished  to  see,  by  what  I  said,  whether  you  could 
approve  what  I  had  done.  In  short,  since  I  must  take 
you  into  my  confidence,  there  is  one  who  is  to  explain  my 
silence  to  the  Princess,  and  perhaps,  at  the  very  moment  I 
am  talking  to  you  here,  the  secret  of  my  heart  is  revealed. 
This  chase,  to  which  she  went,  you  know,  this  morning 
early,  in  order  to  avoid  the  crowd  of  her  adorers,  is  the 
opportunity  which  Moron  has  chosen  to  declare  my  pas- 
sion. 

Arb.  Moron,  my  lord  ? 

Eur.  My  choice  rather  astonishes  you  ;  you  misjudge 
him  because  he  is  a  court  fool ;  but  you  must  know  that 
he  is  less  of  a  fool  than  he  wishes  to  appear,  and  that,  not- 
withstanding his  present  employment,  he  has  more  sense, 
than  those  who  laugh  at  him.^  The  Princess  amuses  her- 
self with  his  buffooneries  :   he  hds  obtained  her  favour  by 

*  The  office  of  court  fool  was,  at  the  time  Moli^re  wrote,  not  wholly 
abolished ;  Louis  XIV.  still  kept  one,  called  I'Angeli,  who  formerly  be- 
longed to  the  Prince  de  Cond^.  Very  little  is  known  of  him,  except  that 
he  was  biting  in  his  remarks,  and  at  last  obliged  to  leave  the  court.  I  do 
not  think  any  court  fool  was  represented  on  the  French  stage  from  the 
time  of  The  Princess  of  Elis  until  Victor  Hugo's  Triboulet  in  Le  Roi 
s  amuse. 


36  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [acti. 

a  hundred  jests,  and  can  thus  say,  and  persuade  her  to, 
what  others  dare  not  hazard.  In  short,  I  think  him  fit  for 
my  purpose;  he  says  he  has  a  great  affection  for  me,  and, 
having  been  born  in  my  country,  will  assist  my  love 
against  all  rivals.  A  little  money  given  him  to  sustain  his 
zeal  .    .    . 

Scene  II. 

Moron,  represented  by  M.  de  Moliere,  arrives,  and,  being 
haunted  by  the  remembrance  of  a  furious  wild  boar,  before 
which  he  had  taken  flight  in  the  chase,  asks  for  assistance. 
Meeting  with  Euryalus  and  Arbates,  he  places  himself  be- 
tween them  for  greater  safety,  after  having  given  proofs  of 
his  terror  and  cracked  a  hundred  jokes  about  his  want  of 
courage. 

Euryalus,  Arbates,  Moron. 

MoR.  {Behind  the  scenes^.  Help,  help  !  save  me  from 
this  cruel  animal. 

Eur.  I  think  I  hear  his  voice. 

MoR.  {Behind  the  scenes^.  Come  to  me !  for  mercy's 
sake,  come  to  me  ! 

Eur.  It  is  he.    Where  is  he  running  in  such  a  fright  ? 

MoR.  {Appearing  without  seeing  anyone^.  How  shall 
I  avoid  this  frightful  boar  ?  Ye  gods !  preserve  me  from 
his  horrid  tusks,  and  I  promise  you,  if  he  does  not  catch 
me,  four  pounds  of  incense  and  two  of  the  fattest  calves. 
{Meeting  Euryalus,  whom  in  his  fright  he  takes  for  the  boar 
from  which  he  is  flying).     Oh  !  I  am  dead. 

Eur.  What  ails  you? 

MoR.  I  took  you  for  the  animal,  whose  throat  I  beheld 
ready  to  swallow  me  \  my  lord,  I  could  not  recover  from 
my  fright. 

Eur.  What  is  it  ? 

MoR.  Oh  !  what  a  strange  taste  the  Princess  has  ;  and, 
in  following  the  chase  and  her  extravagances,  what  foolish- 
ness we  must  put  up  with.  What  pleasure  can  these 
hunters  find  in  being  exposed  to  many  thousand  terrors  ? 
Now,  if  a  man  hunted  only  hares,  rabbits,  or  young  does, 
it  would  be  sensible ;  they  are  animals  of  a  very  gentle 
nature,   and   always   run  away  from  us.     But  to  go  and 


SOKNBII.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  37 

attack  these  unmannerly  beasts,  who  have  not  the  least 
respect  for  a  human  face,  and  who  hunt  those  who  come 
to  hunt  them;  that  is  a  foolish  pastime  that  I  cannot 
endure. 

Eur.  Tell  us  what  is  the  matter. 

MoR.  {pluming  round).  What  a  whim  of  the  Princess 
to  take  exercise  under  such  difficulties  !  I  could  have 
sworn  she  would  play  this  trick.  As  the  chariot-race 
came  on  to-day,  she  must  needs  go  hunt  to  show  her  open 
contempt  for  these  sports,  and  to  make  it  appear  .  .  .  .  ^ 
But,  mum,  let  me  finish  my  tale,  and  resume  the  thread 
of  my  discourse.     What  was  I  saying. 

Eur.  You  were  talking  of  an  exercise  under  diffi- 
culties. 

MoR,  Ah  !  yes.  Well,  then,  fainting  under  this  hor- 
rible labour  (for  I  was  up  at  break  of  day  fitted  out  like  a 
famous  hunter),  I  slunk  away  from  them  all  like  a  hero, 
and,  finding  a  good  place  to  take  a  nap  in,  I  laid  me 
down,  and,  composing  myself,  already  began  to  snore 
comfortably,  when  suddenly  a  frightful  noise  made  me 
open  my  eyes,  and  I  beheld,  coming  out  from  behind 
an  old  thicket  of  the  leafy  wood,  a  boar  of  enormous  size 
for  .    .    . 

Eur.  What  now  ? 

MoR.  Nothing.  Do  not  be  afraid,  but  let  me  get  be- 
tween you,  for  a  reason  ;  I  may  then  be  better  able  to  tell 
you  the  whole  thing.  I  was  saying  I  beheld  the  boar, 
which,  being  pursued  by  our  people,  set  up  all  his  bristles 
with  a  hideous  air ;  his  glaring  eyes  darted  only  threats, 
his  mouth  with  an  ugly  grin  shewed  through  the  foam 
certain  tusks,  for  those  who  ventured  near  him  ...  I 
leave  you  to  imagine  it.  At  this  terrible  sight,  I  seized 
my  weapons ;  but  the  treacherous  brute  without  the 
slightest  fear  rushed  straight  at  me,  without  my  speaking 
a  word  to  him. 

Arb.  And  you  stood  your  ground  ? 

MoR.  I  was  not  such  a  fool !  I  threw  down  my  arms 
and  ran  like  a  dozen. 

Arb.  What !  Having  weapons,  and  yet  fly  from  a  boar  I 
That  was  not  a  valiant  action,  Moron. 

MoR.  I  confess  it  was  not  valiant,  but  sensible. 


38  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  [act  i. 

Arb.  But  if  one  does  not  immortalize  oneself  by  some 
exploit  .    .    . 

MoR.  I  am  your  servant.  I  had  rather  people  should 
say,  it  was  here  that  Moron,  by  flying  without  much  pres- 
sure, saved  himself  from  the  fury  of  a  wild  boar,  than  that 
they  should  say,  here  is  the  famous  spot  where  the  brave 
Moron,  with  heroic  boldness  facing  the  furious  rush  of  a 
wild  boar,  lost  his  life  by  a  wound  from  his  tusk. 

Eur.  Very  good. 

MoR.  Yes.  Without  offence  to  glory,  I  would  rather 
live  two  days  in  the  world,  than  a  thousand  years  in  history. 

Eur.  Your  death  would  indeed  grieve  your  friends; 
but  if  your  mind  has  recovered  from  its  fright,  may  I  in- 
quire if  the  passion  which  consumes  me  .    .    . 

MoR.  My  lord,  I  will  not  dissemble  with  you.  I  have 
done  nothing  yet,  not  having  had  the  opportunity  to 
speak  with  the  Princess  as  I  desired.  The  office  of  court 
buffoon  has  its  prerogatives,  but  we  must  often  turn  aside 
from  our  free  attempts.  To  talk  of  your  flame  is  a  deli- 
cate matter ;  it  is  a  state  affair  with  the  Princess.  You 
know  in  what  title  she  glories,  and  that  her  brain  is  full 
of  a  philosophy  which  wars  against  marriage,  and  treats 
Cupid  as  a  minor  god.  I  must  manage  the  thing  skilfully 
for  fear  of  rousing  her  tiger  humour.  One  must  be  care- 
ful how  to  speak  to  great  folks,  for  they  are  very  ticklish 
sometimes.  Let  me  manage  it  by  degrees.  I  am  full  of 
zeal  for  you.  I  was  born  your  subject.  Some  other  obli- 
gations may  also  contribute  to  the  happiness  I  design  for 
you.  My  mother  was  esteemed  handsome  in  her  day,  and 
was  not  naturally  cruel ;  that  generous  Prince,  your  late 
father,  was  dangerously  gallant,  and  I  have  heard  that 
Elp6nor,  supposed  to  be  my  father  because  he  was  my 
mother's  husband,  related  to  the  shepherds  that  he  was 
occasionally  honoured  by  a  visit  from  the  Prince,  and 
that,  during  that  time,  he  had  the  advantage  of  being 
bowed  to  by  all  the  village.  That  is  sufficient !  Be  that 
as  it  may,  I  intend  by  my  labours  .  .  .  But  here  is  the 
Princess  and  two  of  your  rivals. 

Scene  III. 

TJie  Princess  of  E lis  appears  afterwards  with  the  Princes 


SCENE  III.]  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  39 

of  Messena  and  Pylos,  who  show  that  their  characters  are 
very  different  from  that  of  the  Prince  of  Ithaca,  which  pro- 
cured for  him,  in  the  heart  of  the  Princess,  all  the  advan- 
tages he  could  desire.  This  amiable  Princess  did  not  show, 
however,  that  the  merit  of  this  Prince  had  made  any  ijnpres- 
sion  on  her  mind,  or  that  she  had  so  much  as  observed  him. 
She  always  professed  that,  like  Diana,  she  only  loved  the 
chase  and  the  forests  j  and  when  the  Prince  of  Messena 
wished  to  mention  the  service  he  had  rendered  her  by  rescu- 
ing her  from  a  huge  boar  which  had  attacked  her,  she  told 
him  that,  without  diminishing  in  aught  her  gratitude,  she  con- 
sidered his  assistance  so  much  the  less  considerable,  as  she, 
unaided,  had  killed  many  as  furious,  and  might  perhaps  have 
overcome  that  one. 

The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Aristomenes,  Theo- 
CLES,  Euryalus,  Phillis,  Arbates,  Moron. 

Aris.  Do  you  upbraid  us,  madam,  for  saving  your 
charms  from  this  peril?  For  my  part,  I  should  have 
thought  that  to  overcome  the  boar  which  was  about  to 
attack  you  so  furiously  was  an  adventure  (not  knowing  of 
the  hunt)  for  which  we  ought  to  have  thanked  our  happy 
fate  ;  but,  by  your  coldness,  I  see  plainly  that  I  ought  to 
be  of  another  opinion,  and  quarrel  with  that  fatal  power 
of  chance  which  made  me  take  part  in  an  affair  that  has 
given  you  offence. 

Theo.  For  my  part,  madam,  I  esteem  myself  very 
happy  in  having  performed  this  action  for  which  my 
whole  heart  was  anxious,  and,  notwithstanding  your  dis- 
pleasure, cannot  consent  to  blame  fortune  for  such  an  ad- 
venture. I  know  that,  when  one  is  disliked  everything 
one  does  displeases ;  but  even  were  your  anger  greater 
than  it  is,  it  is  an  extreme  pleasure,  when  one's  love  is 
extreme,  to  be  able  to  rescue  from  peril  the  object  of  one's 
love. 

Prin.  And  do  you  think,  my  lord,  since  I  must  speak, 
that  there  would  have  been  anything  in  this  danger  to 
terrify  me  so  greatly?  That  the  bow  and  arrow,  which  I 
love  so  much,  would  have  been  a  useless  weapon  in  my 
hands?  And  that  I,  accustomed  to  traverse  our  moun- 
tains, our  plains,  our  woods,  might  not  dare  hope  to  suf- 


40  THE  PRINCESS  OF   ELIS.  [act  i. 

fice  for  my  own  defence  ?  Surely  I  have  made  but  little 
use  of  my  time  and  the  assiduous  labours  of  which  I  boast, 
if,  in  such  an  emergency,  I  could  not  have  triumphed 
over  a  wretched  animal.  At  least  if,  in  your  opinion,  my 
sex  in  general  is  unable  for  such  actions,  allow  me  the 
glory  of  a  higher  sphere,  and  do  me  the  favour,  both  of 
you,  to  believe  that,  whatever  the  boar  of  to-day  may 
have  been,  I  have  conquered  fiercer  ones  without  your 
help,  my  lords. 

Theo.  But,  madam  .    .    . 

Prin.  Well,  be  it  so.  I  see  that  your  desire  is  to  shew 
me  that  I  owe  my  life  to  you ;  I  grant  it.  Yes,  without 
you  I  had  lost  my  life.  I  heartily  thank  you  for  your 
grand  assistance,  and  will  go  at  once  to  the  Prince  to  in- 
form him  of  the  kindness  with  which  your  love  has  in- 
spired you  for  me. 

Scene  IV. — Euryalus,  Arbates,  Moron. 

MoR.  Well!  was  there  ever  seen  such  an  untamed  spirit? 
The  well-timed  death  of  that  ugly  boar  vexes  her.  Oh  ! 
how  willingly  would  I  have  rewarded  anyone  who  would 
have  rid  me  of  him  just  now  ! 

Arb.  i^To  Euryalus).  I  see,  my  lord,  her  disdain  ren- 
ders you  pensive ;  but  it  ought  not  to  retard  in  the  least 
the  execution  of  your  plans.  Her  hour  must  come,  and 
perhaps  it  is  to  you  that  the  honour  of  conquering  her  is 
reserved. 

MoR.  She  must  know  of  your  passion  before  the  race, 
and  I  .  .  . 

Eur.  No,  Moron,  I  do  not  wish  it  so  any  longer.  Be 
careful  to  say  nothing,  and  leave  me  to  act ;  I  have  re- 
solved to  take  quite  a  different  course.  I  see  plainly  she 
is  resolved  to  despise  all  who  think  to  gain  her  heart  by 
deep  respect ;  and  the  deity  who  induces  me  to  sigh  for 
her  has  inspired  me  with  a  new  way  to  conquer  her.  Yes, 
it  is  he  who  has  caused  this  sudden  change,  and  from  him 
I  await  its  happy  conclusion. 

Arb.  May  one  know,  my  lord,  by  what  means  you 

hope  ...  ,  ,  ., 

Eur.  You  shall  see  it.     Follow  me  and  keep  silence. 


SCM«ll.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  41 

SECOND  INTERLUDE 

Argument. 

The  agreeable  Moron  leaves  the  Prince  to  go  and  talk  of  his  growing 
passion  to  the  woods  and  the  rocks,  uttering  everywhere  the  beautiful 
name  of  his  shepherdess  Phillis ;  a  ridiculous  echo  answers  him  whim- 
sically ;  he  takes  so  great  a  pleasure  in  it,  that,  laughing  in  a  hundred 
ways,  he  makes  the  echo  answer  as  often,  without  seeming  at  all  tired 
of  it.  But  a  bear  interrupts  this  fine  amusement,  and  surprises  him 
so  much  by  the  unexpected  sight,  that  he  shows  visible  signs  of  terror, 
which  causes  him  to  make  before  the  bear  all  the  bows  he  can  think 
of  to  mollify  him.  At  length  he  is  going  to  run  up  a  tree ;  but  seeing 
that  the  bear  is  also  going  to  climb,  he  cries  out  for  help  so  loudly, 
that  eight  peasants  armed  with  pointed  sticks  and  spears  appear,  whilst 
another  bear  comes  after  the  first.  A  battle  then  begins,  which  ends 
with  the  death  of  one  of  the  bears,  and  the  flight  of  the  other. 

Scene  I. — Moron,  alone. 

Good  bye,  till  I  see  you  again ;  as  for  me,  I  shall  stay 
here,  and  have  a  little  conversation  with  these  trees  and 
rocks. 

Woods,  meadows,  fountains,  flowers,  that  behold  my 
pale  countenance,  if  you  do  not  know  it,  I  tell  you  I  am 
in  love.  Phillis  is  the  charming  object  who  has  fixed  my 
heart.  I  became  her  lover  by  seeing  her  milk  a  cow  ;  her 
fingers,  quite  full  of  milk,  and  a  thousand  times  whiter, 
squeezed  the  udder  in  an  admirable  manner.  Ouf !  the 
thought  of  it  will  drive  me  crazy.  Ah  !  Phillis  !  Phillis  ! 
{echo,  Phillis!)  ah!  {echo,2i}ciX)  hem!  {echo,  hem!)  ah! 
{echo,  ah!)  oh  I  {echo,  oh!)  oh!  {echo,  oh!)  This  is  a 
funny  echo  !  Hom  !  {echo,  hom  !)  ha  !  {echo,  ha  !)  ha  ! 
{echo,  ha  !)  hu  1  {echo,  hu  !)     This  is  a  funny  echo. 

Scene  II.— A  Bear,  Moron. 

MoR.  {Seeing  a  bear  approaching).  Oh,  Master  bear,  I 
am  your  very  humble  servant.  Pray,  spare  me  ;  I  assure 
you  I  am  not  worth  eating ;  I  am  only  skin  and  bone,  and 
I  see  certain  people  yonder  who  would  serve  your  turn 
much  better.  Eh  !  eh !  eh !  my  lord,  gently,  if  you  please. 
There  {he  caresses  the  bear  and  trembles  with  fear),  there, 
there,  there.  Ha,  my  lord,  how  handsome  and  well-made 
your  highness  is  !  You  look  quite  stylish,  and  you  have 
the  prettiest  shape  in  the  world.  Ah  !  what  beautiful 
bristles !  what  a  beautiful  head  I  what  beautiful,  sparkling, 


42  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  n. 

and  large  eyes  !  Ah  !  what  a  pretty  little  nose  !  what  a 
pretty  little  mouth !  what  darling  little  teeth !  Ah  !  what 
a  beautiful  throat !  what  beautiful  little  paws !  what  well- 
shaped  little  nails  (Jke  bear  gets  on  his  hind  legs)  !  Help  I 
help !  I  am  dead !  Have  mercy !  Poor  Moron !  Oh !  good 
Heavens  !  Oh  !  quick,  I  am  lost.  ( The  huntsmen  appear 
and  Moron  climbs  up  a  tree).  {He  addresses  the  huntsmen). 
Oh!  gentlemen,  take  pity  upon  me.  {The  huntsmen  fight 
with  the  bear).  That  is  right  gentlemen,  kill  that  ugly 
beast  for  me.  Assist  them,  kind  Heaven  !  All  right  he 
runs  away ;  there  he  stops  and  falls  upon  them.  That  is 
right,  there  is  one  who  has  given  him  a  thrust  in  his  throat. 
They  all  surround  him.  Courage — stand  to  it !  well  done, 
my  friends !  That  is  right !  go  on !  again  !  Oh !  there  he 
is  on  the  ground ;  it  is  all  over  with  him ;  he  is  dead. 
Let  us  come  down  now  and  give  him  a  hundred  blows. 
{Moron  comes  down  the  tree).  Your  servant,  gentlemen,  I 
am  much  obliged  to  you  for  having  delivered  me  from  this 
animal.  Now  that  you  have  killed  him,  I  am  going  to 
finish  him,  and  triumph  with  you. 

These  fortunate  huntsmen  had  no  sooner  gained  this  vic- 
tory, than  Moron,  grown  bold  by  the  danger  being  remote, 
wishes  to  go  and  give  a  thousand  blows  to  the  animal,  no 
longer  able  to  defend  himself,  and  does  all  that  a  braggart, 
not  over  bold,  would  have  done  on  such  an  occasioti;  the 
huntsmen,  to  show  their  joy,  dance  a  very  fine  entret. 


ACT  II. — Argument. 

The  Prince  of  Ithaca  and  the  Princess  had  a  very  gallant  conversation 
about  the  chariot  race  which  was  in  preparation.  She  had  ere  this 
told  one  of  the  princesses,  her  relatives,  that  the  insensibility  of  the 
Prince  of  Ithaca  disturbed  her,  and  was  disagreeable  to  her :  that,  al- 
though she  did  not  wish  to  love  any  one,  it  was  very  sad  to  see  that  he 
loved  nothing,  and  that,  although  she  had  resolved  not  to  go  to  see 
the  races,  she  now  would  go,  in  order  to  endeavour  to  triumph  over 
the  liberty  of  a  man  who  was  so  fond  of  it.  It  might  easily  be  per- 
ceived that  the  merit  of  this  prince  produced  its  ordinary  eflFect; 
that  his  fine  qualities  had  touched  her  proud  heart,  and  had  begun 
partly  to  thaw  that  ice  which  had  resisted  until  then  all  the  ardour  of 
love.  Advised  by  Moron,  whom  he  had  gained  over,  and  who  knew 
wen  the  heart  of  the  Princess,  the  more  the  Prince  pretended  to  be 


SCENE  I.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  43 

insensible,  although  he  was  but  too  much  in  love,  the  more  the  Princess 
resolved  to  win  his  affections,  though  she  did  not  intend  to  return  his 
love.  The  Princes  of  Messena  and  Pylos  took  their  leave  of  her,  to 
go  to  prepare  for  the  races,  and  spoke  of  the  expectation  they  had  of 
being  conquerors,  because  they  desired  to  please  her.  The  Prince 
of  Ithaca,  on  the  contrary,  told  her  that,  having  never  been  in  love 
with  any  thing,  he  was  going  to  try  to  obtain  the  prize  for  his  own 
satisfaction.  This  made  the  Princess  all  the  more  anxious  to  subdue 
a  heart,  already  sufficiently  subdued,  but  which  knew  how  to  disguise 
its  sentiments  in  a  wonderful  manner. 

Scene  I. — The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Phillis. 

Prin.  Yes,  I  love  to  dwell  in  these  peaceful  spots. 
There  is  nothing  here  but  what  enchants  the  eye ;  and  all 
the  noble  architecture  of  our  palaces  must  yield  the  palm 
to  these  simple  beauties  formed  by  nature.  These  trees, 
these  rocks,  these  waters,  this  fresh  turf,  have  charms  for 
me  of  which  I  never  tire. 

Agl.  Like  you,  I  love  tranquil  retreats  where  one  avoids 
the  bustle  of  the  city.  Such  places  are  adorned  with  a 
thousand  charming  objects  ;  and  what  is  surprising  is  that, 
at  the  very  gates  of  Elis,  those  gentle  souls  who  hate  a 
crowd  may  find  so  vast  and  beautiful  a  solitude.  But,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  in  these  days  of  rejoicing  your  retreat 
liere  appears  somewhat  unseasonable,  and  puts  a  slight  on 
the  magnificent  preparations  made  by  each  prince  for  the 
public  entertainment.  The  grand  spectacle  of  the  chariot- 
race  merits  the  honour  of  your  notice. 

Prin.  What  right  have  they  to  desire  my  presence,  and 
what  do  I  owe,  after  all,  to  their  magnificence  ?  They 
take  these  pains  on  purpose  to  win  me,  and  my  heart  is  the 
only  prize  for  which  they  all  strive.  But  with  whatever 
hope  they  may  flatter  themselves,  I  am  greatly  mistaken  if 
either  of  them  carries  it  off. 

CvN.  How  long  will  this  heart  be  provoked  at  the  in- 
nocent designs  which  are  formed  to  touch  it ;  and  regard 
the  trouble  which  people  give  themselves  as  so  many 
offences  against  your  person  ?  I  know  that  in  pleading 
the  cause  of  love,  I  am  exposed  to  your  displeasure,  but 
as  I  have  the  honour  to  be  related  to  you,  I  oppose  myself 
to  the  harshness  which  you  show  ;  and  cannot  feed  by 
flattery  your  resolution  of  never  loving.  Is  anything  more 
beautiful  than  the  innocent  flame  which  brilliant  merit 


44  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  ii. 

kindles  in  the  soul  ?  What  happiness  would  there  be  in 
life,  if  love  were  banished  from  among  mortals  ?  No,  no, 
the  delights  which  it  affords  are  infinite,  and  to  live  with- 
out loving  is,  properly  speaking,  not  to  live  at  all.** 

Agl.  For  my  part,  I  think  that  this  passion  is  the  most 
agreeable  business  of  life  ;  that,  in  order  to  live  happily, 
it  is  necessary  to  love,  and  that  all  pleasures  are  insipid 
unless  mangled  with  a  little  love. 

,  Prin.  Can  you  two,  being  what  you  are,  talk  thus? 
And  ought  you  not  to  blush  for  countenancing  a  passion 
which  is  nothing  but  error,  weakness,  and  extravagance, 
and  of  which  all  the  disorders  are  so  repugnant  to  the 
glory  of  our  sex  ?  I  intend  to  maintain  its  honour  until 
the  last  moment  of  my  life,  and  will  never  trust  those  men 
who  pretend  to  be  our  slaves,  only  to  become  in  time  our 
tyrants.  All  these  tears,  all  these  sighs,  all  this  homage, 
all  these  respects,  are  but  snares  laid  for  our  hearts,  and 
which  often  induce  them  to  act  basely.  For  my  part, 
when  I  behold  certain  examples,  and  the  hideous  mean- 
nesses to  which  that  passion  can  debase  persons  who  are 
under  its  sway,  my  whole  heart  is  moved  ;  I  cannot  bear 
that  a  soul  which  possesses  ever  so  little  pride  should  not 
feel  horribly  ashamed  of  such  weaknesses. 

CvN.  Ah,  madam,  there  are  certain  weaknesses  that  are 
not  at  all  shameful,  and  which  it  ie  beautiful  to  have  in 
the  highest  degree  of  glory.  I  hope  that  one  day  you  will 
change  your  mind  ;  and  if  Heaven  please,  we  shall  shortly 
see  your  heart  .    .    . 

Prin.  Hold.  Do  not  finish  that  strange  wish.  I  have 
too  unconquerable  a  horror  of  such  debasement ;  if  I 
should  ever  be  capable  of  sinking  so  low,  I  should  cer- 
tainly never  forgive  myself. 

Agl.  Take  care,  madam  !  Love  knows  how  to  revenge 
himself  for  the  contempt  shown  him,  and  perhaps   .    .    . 

Prin.  No,  no.     I  defy  all  his  darts ;  the  great  power 

••  As  far  as  this  line  the  play  is,  in  the  original,  in  verse ;  but  in  the 
printed  edition,  Moli^re  inserted  the  following  notice :  ""Yhe  design  of 
the  author  was  to  treat  thus  the  whole  comedy.  But  an  order  of  the 
King,  who  hurried  on  this  affair,  compelled  him  to  finish  the  remainder  in 
prose,  and  to  pass  lightly  over  several  scenes,  which  he  would  have  ex- 
tended if  he  had  had  more  leisure." 


SCENE  III.]  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  4J 

which  is  attributed  to  him  is  nothing  but  an  idle  fancy, 
and  an  excuse  for  feeble  hearts,  who  represent  him  as  in- 
vincible to  justify  their  weakness. 

Cyn.  But  all  the  world  recognizes  his  power,  and  you 
see  that  the  gods  themselves  are  subject  to  his  empire.  We 
are  told  that  Jupiter  loved  more  than  once,  and  that 
Diana  herself,  whom  you  so  much  affect  to  imitate,  was  not 
ashamed  to  breathe  sighs  of  love. 

Prin.  Public  opinions  are  always  mixed  with  error. 
The  gods  are  not  such  as  the  vulgar  make  them  out  to  be, 
and  it  is  a  want  of  respect  to  attribute  to  them  human 
frailties. 

Scene  II. — The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Phillis, 
Moron. 

Agl.  Come  hither,  Moron;  come,  help  us  to  defend 
love  against  the  Princess's  opinion. 

Prin.  Your  side  is  strengthened  by  a  grand  defender 
truly! 

Mor.  Upon  my  word,  madam,  I  believe  that  after  my 
example  there  is  no  more  to  be  said,  and  that  none  should 
doubt  any  longer  the  power  of  love.  I  for  a  long  time 
defied  his  arms,  and  acted  like  a  rogue,  just  as  any  other  ; 
but  at  length  my  pride  was  cowed,  and  you  have  a  traitress 
(^pointing  to  Phillis)  who  has  made  me  tamer  than  a  lamb. 
After  that,  you  ought  to  have  no  scruples  to  love ;  and, 
since  I  have  submitted  to  him,  others  may  do  the  same. 

Cyn.  What !   Moron  in  love  ? 

Mor.  Yes,  indeed. 

Cyn.  And  is  he  beloved  ? 

Mor.  And  why  not  ?  Am  I  not  well  enough  made  for 
that  ?  I  think  this  face  is  passable  enough ;  and  as  to 
elegant  manners,  thank  Heaven,  we  yield  to  none. 

Cyn.  Without  doubt,  it  would  be  wrong  to  .  .  . 

Scene  III. — The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Moron, 
Phillis,  Lycas. 

Lyc.  Madam,  the  Prince,  your  father,  is  coming  hither 
to  seek  you  ;  he  brings  with  him  the  Princes  of  Pylos,  of 
Ithaca,  and  of  Messena. 

Prin.  Heavens  !  what  does  he  mean  by  bringing  them 


46  THE  PRINCESS  OF   ELIS.  [act  n. 

to  me  ?     Has  he  resolved  on  my  ruin,  and  would  he  force 
me  to  choose  one  of  them  ? 

Scene  IV. — Iphitas,  Eurvalus,  Aristomenes,  Theocles, 
The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Phillis,  Moron. 

Prin.  (Iphitas).  My  lord,  I  beg  you  to  give  me  leave 
to  prevent,  by  two  words,  the  declaration  of  the  thoughts 
which  you  may  perhaps  foster.  There  are  two  truths,  my 
lord,  the  one  as  certain  as  the  other,  of  which  I  can 
assure  you;  the  one  is,  that  you  have  an  absolute  power 
over  me,  and  that  you  can  lay  no  command  upon  me 
which  I  would  not  blindly  obey ;  the  other  is,  that  I  look 
upon  marriage  as  death,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
conquer  this  natural  aversion.  To  give  me  a  husband  and 
to  kill  me  are  the  same  thing ;  but  your  will  takes  prece- 
dence, and  my  obedience  is  dearer  to  me  than  life.  After 
this,  my  lord,  speak ;  say  freely  what  you  desire. 

Iph.  Daughter,  you  are  wrong  to  be  so  alarmed ;  and  I 
am  grieved  that  you  can  think  me  so  bad  a  father  as  to  do 
violence  to  your  sentiments,  and  to  use  tyrannically  the 
power  which  Heaven  has  given  me  over  you.  I  wish,  in- 
deed, that  your  heart  were  capable  of  loving  some  one. 
All  my  desires  would  be  satisfied  if  that  were  to  happen ; 
and  I  proposed  to  celebrate  the  present  fetes  and  sports 
only  to  assemble  all  the  illustrious  youth  of  Greece,  that 
amongst  them  you  might  meet  one  who  would  please  you 
and  determine  your  choice.  I  say,  I  ask  of  Heaven  no 
other  happiness  than  to  see  you  married.  To  obtain  this 
favour,  I  have  this  morning  again  offered  up  sacrifice  to 
Venus ;  and  if  I  know  how  to  interpret  the  language  of 
the  gods,  the  goddess  promised  me  a  miracle.  But,  be 
this  as  it  may,  I  will  act  like  a  father  who  loves  his 
daughter.  If  you  can  find  one  on  whom  to  fix  your  in- 
clination, your  choice  shall  be  mine,  and  I  shall  consider 
neither  interests  of  state  nor  advantages  of  alliance.  If 
your  heart  remains  insensible,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  force 
it.  But  at  least  be  polite  in  answer  to  the  civilities  offered 
to  you,  and  do  not  oblige  me  to  make  excuses  for  your 
coldness.  Treat  these  princes  with  the  esteem  which  you 
owe  them,  and  receive  with  gratitude  the  proofs  of  their 


SCENE  v.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  47 

zeal.  Come  and  see  this  race  in  which  their  skill  will 
appear. 

Theo.  {To  the  Princess).  Every  one  will  do  his  ut- 
most to  gain  the  prize  of  this  chariot-race.  But  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  care  little  for  the  victory,  since  your 
heart  is  not  to  be  contended  for. 

Aris.  For  my  part,  madam,  you  are  the  only  prize  I 
propose  to  myself  everywhere.  It  is  you  whom  I  imagine 
to  be  the  reward  in  these  combats  of  skill;  I  aspire 
honourably  to  gain  this  race  only  to  obtain  a  degree  of 
glory  which  may  raise  me  nearer  to  your  heart. 

Eur.  As  for  me,  madam,  I  do  not  go  with  any  such 
thought.  As  I  have  all  my  life  professed  to  love  nothing, 
I  take  pains,  but  not  with  the  same  object  as  the  other 
princes.  I  do  not  pretend  to  obtain  your  heart,  and  the 
honour  of  gaining  the  race  is  the  sole  advantage  to  which 
I  aspire. 

Scene  V. — The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Phillis, 
Moron. 

Prin.  Whence  proceeds  thus  unexpected  haughtiness? 
Princesses,  what  do  you  say  of  this  young  Prince  ?  .  Did 
you  observe  what  an  air  he  assumed  ? 

Agl.  It  is  true  it  was  somewhat  haughty. 

MoR.  (Aside).  Oh !  what  a  fine  trick  he  has  played 
her ! 

Prin.  Do  you  not  think  it  would  be  pleasant  to  humble 
his  pride,  and  to  abase  a  little  that  hectoring  heart  ? 

Cyn.  As  you  are  accustomed  to  receive  nothing  but 
homage  and  adoration  from  the  whole  world,  such  a  com- 
pliment as  his  must  indeed  surprise  you. 

Prin.  I  confess  it  has  caused  me  some  emotion  ;  and  I 
should  much  like  to  find  a  way  to  chastise  this  pride.  I 
had  no  great  desire  to  go  to  this  race,  but  now  I  shall  go 
on  purpose,  and  do  all  I  can  to  inspire  him  with  love. 

Cyn.  Take  care,  madam,  the  enterprise  is  dangerous ; 
and  when  one  tries  to  inspire  love,  one  runs  a  risk  of 
receiving  it. 

Prin.  Oh,  pray  apprehend  nothing.  Come,  I  shall 
answer  for  myself. 


48  THE  PRINCESS  OF   ELIS.  [act  ii. 

THIRD   INTERLUDE. 

Scene  I. — Moron,  Phillis. 

MoR.  Phillis,  stay  here. 

Phil.  No,  let  me  follow  the  rest. 
•  MoR.  Oh !  cruel  creature  !     If  Tircis  had  asked  you, 
you  would  have  stayed  fast  enough. 

Phil.  That  may  be,  I  own  I  love  much  better  to  be 
with  him  than  with  you,  for  he  amuses  me  with  his  voice, 
and  you  deafen  me  with  your  cackle.  When  you  sing  as 
well  as  he  does,  I  promise  to  listen  to  you. 

MoR.  Oh,  stay  a  little. 

Phil.  I  cannot. 

MoR.  Pray  do. 

Phil.  No,  I  tell  you. 

MoR.     {Holding  Phillis).     I  will  not  let  you  go  .    .    . 

Phil.  What  a  bother ! 

MoR.  I  only  ask  to  be  one  instant  with  you. 

Phil.  Well,  I  shall  stay,  provided  you  promise  me  one 
thing. 

MoR.  What? 

Phil.  Not  to  speak  at  all. 

MoR.  Oh,  Phillis. 

Phil.  If  you  do,  I  shall  not  stay. 

MoR.  Will  you  .    .    . 

Phil.  Let  me  go. 

MoR.  Well,  stay ;  I  shall  not  say  a  word. 

Phil.  Take  care  you  do  not,  for  at  the  first  word  I  shall 
run. 

MoR.  Be  it  so {Making  some  gestures).     Ha, 

Phillis  !     Ha !  .    .    . 

Scene  II. — Moron,  alone. 

She  runs  away,  and  I  cannot  overtake  her.  That  is 
the  mischief.  If  I  could  but  sing,  I  might  do  my  business 
better.  Most  women  now-a-days  are  caught  by  the  ear ; 
that  is  the  reason  why  every  one  learns  music ;  no  one 
succeeds  with  them  but  with  little  songs  and  little  verses 
that  are  warbled  to  them.  I  must  learn  to  sing  that  I  may 
act  like  others.     Oh  !  here  is  the  very  man. 


SCENE  111.]  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  49 

Scene  III. — ^A  Satyr,  Moron. 

Sat.     (Smgs).     La,  la,  la. 

MoR.  Ah,  friend  Satyr,  you  know  what  you  promised 
me,  ever  so  long  ago.     Pray  teach  me  to  sing. 

Sat.  I  will ;  but  first  listen  to  a  song  I  have  just  made. 

MoR.  {Aside  and  in  a  whisper).  He  is  so  used  to  sing 
that  he  cannot  speak  otherwise.  {Aloud).  Come,  sing,  I 
am  listening  to  you. 

Sat.     {Sings).     I  was  carrying  .    .    . 

MoR.  A  song,  do  you  say? 

Sat.  I  was  ,    .    . 

MoR.  A  song  to  be  sung  ? 

Sat.  I  was  ... 

MoR.  A  lover's  song  ?    Hang  it ! 

Sat.  I  was  carrying  in  a  cage  two  sparrows  I  had 
caught,  when  young  Chloris,  in  a  dark  grove,  showed  to 
my  astonished  eyes  her  blooming  and  lovely  countenance. 
When  I  beheld  her  gaze,  so  skilled  in  conquering,  I  said  to 
the  sparrows,  Alas !  console  yourselves,  poor  little  ani- 
mals, he  who  caught  you  is  much  more  caught  than  you 
are. 

Moron  was  not  satisfied  with  this  song,  though  he  thought 
it  very  pretty  ;  he  asked  for  one  with  more  passion  in  it,  and, 
begging  the  Satyr  to  sing  him  the  one  he  had  heard  him  sing 
some  days  before,  the  Satyr  thus  continued : 

In  your  songs  so  sweet,  sing  to  my  fair  one,  oh  birds, 
sing  all  my  mortal  pain.  But  if  the  cruel  maid  gets  angry 
when  she  hears  the  true  story  of  the  pangs  I  endure  for  her 
sake,  then,  birds,  be  silent. 

Ihis  second  song  having  moved  Moron  very  much,  he  de- 
sires the  Satyr  to  teach  him  to  sing  it. 

MoR.  Ah  !  this  is  fine ;  teach  it  me. 
Sat.  La,  la,  la,  la. 
MoR.  La,  la,  la,  la. 
Sat.  Fa,  fa,  fa,  fa. 
MoR.  Fa  yourself." 

8*  In  the  original  there  is  a  play  on  words  which  cannot  be  rendered 
into  English.  The  musical  scale  consisted  formerly  of  the  notes  ut,  r^, 
mi,  fa,  sol,  la,  si,  ut;  hence  when  Moron  answers  the  Satyr  Fat  tot- 
nume  ;  it  may  mean  "  fa  yourself,"  or  "  dandy  yourself." 

VOL.  H.  D 


5©  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  fACT  m. 

The  Satyr  gets  angry,  and  by  degrees  places  himself  in  an 
attitude  as  if  he  was  coming  to  fisticuffs;  the  violins  begin  to 
play,  and  several  Satyrs  dance  an  agreeable  entree.  ** 


ACT  III.— Argument. 

In  the  meantime  the  Princess  of  Elis  was  very  uneasy ;  the  Prince  of  Ithaca 
had  gained  the  prize  at  the  races ;  afterwards  the  Princess  had  sung 
and  danced  in  an  admirable  manner ;  and  yet  it  did  not  seem  that 
these  gifts  of  nature  and  art  had  been  even  observed  by  the  P^nce  of 
Ithaca  J  she  complains  of  it  to  the  Princess,  her  relative ;  she  also 
sp>eaks  of  it  to  Moron,  who  calls  that  unfeeling  Prince  a  brute.  At 
last,  seeing  him  herself,  she  cannot  refrain  from  making  some  serious 
allusions  to  it ;  he  candidly  answers  that  he  loves  nothing  except  his 
liberty,  and  the  pleasures  of  solitude  and  the  chase,  in  which  he  de- 
lights. 

Scene  I. — ^The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Phillis. 

Cyn.  It  is  true,  madam,  that  this  young  prince  showed 
uncommon  skill,  and  that  his  bearing  was  surprising.  He 
is  the  conqueror  in  this  race,  but  I  doubt  much  if  he  leaves 
with  the  same  spirit  with  which  he  came ;  for  you  aimed 
such  blows  at  him  that  it  was  difficult  to  defend  himself, 
and,  without  mentioning  anything  else,  your  graceful  danc- 
ing and  the  sweetness  of  your  voice  had  charms  to-day  to 
touch  the  most  insensible. 

Prin.  There  he  comes,  conversing  with  Moron.  We 
shall  know  what  he  is  talking  of.  Let  us  not  interrupt 
them,  but  turn  this  way,  to  meet  them  again  by-and-bye. 

Scene  II. — Euryalus,  Arbates,  Moron. 

Eur.  Ah,  Moron !  I  confess  I  was  enchanted  ;  never 
have  so  many  charms  together  met  my  eyes  and  ears.  She 
is,  in  truth,  adorable  at  all  times ;  but  she  was  at  that  mo- 
ment more  so  than  ever.  New  charms  enhanced  her  beauty. 
Never  was  her  face  adorned  with  more  lively  colours,  nor 
were  her  eyes  armed  with  swifter  or  more  piercing  shafts. 

**  Shakespeare,  in  his  Merchant  of  Venice  (Act  v.,  Scene  i.),  has  also 
given  a  kind  of  musical  interlude,  in  the  scene  between  Lorenzo  and  Jes- 
sica; but  in  it  the  sparkling  poetry  sometimes  soars  to  the  highest  realms 
of  lyric  enthusiasm ;  Moli^re  wished  only  to  give  a  comic  scene,  inter- 
spersed with  some  songs. 


scKNBiii.]  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  -Ji 

The  sweetness  of  her  voire  showed  itself  in  the  perfectly 
charming  air  which  she  deigned  to  sing ;  and  the  marvel- 
lous tones  she  uttered  went  to  the  very  depth  of  my  soul, 
and  held  all  my  senses  so  enraptured  that  they  could  not 
recover.  She  then  showed  an  agility  altogether  divine ; 
her  lovely  feet  upon  the  enamel  of  the  soft  turf  traced  such 
delightful  steps  as  put  me  quite  beside  myself,  and 
bound  me  by  irresistible  bonds  to  the  easy  and  accurate 
motion  with  which  her  whole  body  followed  those  harmo- 
nious strains.  In  short,  never  did  soul  feel  stronger  emo- 
tions than  mine.  More  than  twenty  times  have  I  thought 
to  give  up  my  resolution,  cast  myself  at  her  feet,  and  de- 
clare to  her  frankly  the  ardour  which  I  felt  for  her. 

MoR.  Take  my  advice,  my  lord,"  and  be  careful  how  you 
do  that. — You  have  discovered  the  best  method  in  the 
world,  and  I  am  greatly  deceived  if  it  does  not  succeed. 
Women  are  animals  of  a  whimsical  nature ;  we  spoil  them 
by  our  tenderness;  and  I  verily  believe  we  should  see 
them  run  after  us,  were  it  not  for  the  respect  and  sub- 
mission whereby  men  allure  them. 

Arb.  My  lord,  here  comes  the  princess,  a  little  in  ad- 
vance of  her  retinue. 

MoR.  At  least  continue  as  you  have  begun.  I  shall  go 
and  see  what  she  will  say  to  me.  In  the  meantime,  walk 
you  in  these  alleys  without  showing  any  desire  to  join  her, 
and  if  you  do  accost  her,  stay  as  little  with  her  as  you  can. 

Scene  III. — The  Princess,  Moron. 

Prin.  You  are  intimate,  Moron,  with  the  Prince  of 
Ithaca  ? 

Mor.  Ah,  madam  !  we  have  known  one  another  a  long 
time. 

Prin.  What  is  the  reason  that  he  did  not  walk  so  far  as 
this,  but  turned  the  other  way  when  he  saw  me  ? 

Mor.  He  is  a  whimsical  fellow,  and  only  loves  to  con- 
verse with  his  own  thoughts. 

Prin.  Were  you  present  just  now  when  he  paid  me  that 
compliment  ? 

Mor,  Yes,  madam,  I  was,  and  thought  it  rather  im- 
pertinent, under  favour  of  his  princeship. 

Prin.  For  my  part,  I  confess.  Moron,  this  avoidance  of 


$2  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  •  [act  m. 

me  offends  me.  I  have  a  great  desire  to  make  him  fall  in 
love  with  me,  that  I  may  bring  down  his  pride  a  little. 

MoR.  Upon  my  word,  madam,  you  would  not  do  ill ;  he 
deserves  it :  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  great  doubts 
of  your  success. 

Prin.  How  so  ? 

MoR.  How  ?  Why,  he  is  the  proudest  little  rogue  you 
ever  saw.  He  thinks  no  one  in  the  world  is  like  him,  and 
that  the  earth  is  not  worthy  to  bear  him. 

Prin.  But  has  he  not  yet  spoken  of  me  ? 

MoR.  He?     No. 

Prin.  Did  he  say  nothing  to  you  of  my  singing  and 
dancing  ? 

MoR.  Not  the  least  word. 

Prin.  This  contempt  is  shocking.  I  cannot  bear  this 
strange  haughtiness,  which  esteems  nothing. 

MoR.  He  neither  esteems  nor  loves  any  one  but  himself. 

Prin.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  humble  him 
as  he  deserves. 

MoR.  We  have  no  marble  in  our  mountains  harder  or 
more  insensible  than  he. 

Prin.  There  he  comes. 

MoR.  Do  you  see  how  he  passes  without  noticing  you  ? 

Prin.  Pray,  Moron,  go  and  tell  him  I  am  here,  and 
oblige  him  to  come  and  speak  to  me. 

Scene  IV. — The  Princess,  Euryalus,vArbates,  Moron. 

MoR.  (Going  up  to  Euryalus  and  whispering  to  him). 
My  lord,  I  tell  you  everything  is  going  on  well.  The 
Princess  wishes  you  to  come  and  speak  to  her ;  but  take 
care  to  continue  to  play  your  part.  For  fear  of  forgetting 
it,  do  not  stay  long  with  her . 

Prin.  You  are  very  solitary,  my  lord ;  and  it  is  an  ex- 
traordinary disposition  of  yours  to  renounce  our  sex  in 
this  manner,  and  to  avoid  at  your  age  that  gallantry  upon 
which  your  equals  pride  themselves. 

Eur.  This  disposition,  madam,  is  not  so  extraordinary 
but  that  we  may  find  examples  of  it  at  no  great  distance ; 
you  cannot  condemn  the  resolution  I  have  taken  of  never 
loving  anything,  without  also  condemning  your  own 
sentiments.  / 


sOHNKiv.]       •  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  53 

Prin.  There  is  a  great  difference.  That  which  becomes 
well  our  sex  does  not  well  become  yours.  It  is  noble  for 
a  woman  to  be  insensible,  and  to  keep  her  heart  free  from 
the  flames  of  love  :  but  what  is  a  virtue  in  her  is  a  crime 
in  a  man ;  and  as  beauty  is  the  portion  of  our  sex,  you 
cannot  refrain  from  loving  us  without  depriving  us  of  the 
homage  which  is  our  due,  and  committing  an  offence  which 
we  ought  all  to  resent. 

Eur.  I  do  not  see,  madam,  that  those  who  will  not  love 
should  take  any  interest  in  offences  of  this  kind.  ^ 

Prin.  That  is  no  reason,  my  lord;  for  although  we  will 
not  love,  yet  we  are  always  glad  to  be  loved. 

Eur.  For  my  part,  I  am  not  of  that  mood ;  and  as  I 
design  to  love  none  I  should  be  sorry  to  be  beloved. 

Prin.  Why  so  ? 

Eur.  Because  we  are  under  an  obligation  to  those  who 
love  us,  and  I  should  be  sorry  to  be  ungrateful. 

Prin.  So  that,  to  avoid  ingratitude,  you  would  love  the 
one  who  loved  you  ? 

Eur.  I,  madam  ?  Not  at  all,  I  say  I  should  be  sorry 
to  be  ungrateful ;  biit  I  would  sooner  be  so  than  be  amorous. 

Prin.  Perhaps  such  a  person  might  love  you  that  your 
heart  .  .   . 

Eur.  No,  madam ;  nothing  is  capable  of  touching  my 
heart.  Liberty  is  the  sole  mistress  whom  I  adore;  and 
though  Heaven  should  employ  its  utmost  care  to  form  a 
perfect  beauty,  in  whom  should  be  combined  the  most 
marvellous  gifts  both  of  body  and  mind ;  in  short,  though 
it  should  expose  to  my  view  a  miracle  of  wit,  cleverness, 
and  beauty,  and  that  person  should  love  me  with  all  the 
tenderness  imaginable,  I  confess  frankly  to  you  I  should 
not  love  her.  " 

Prin.  {Aside).     Was  ever  anything  seen  like  this  ? 

MoR.  {To  the  Princess).  Plague  take  the  little  brute! 
I  have  a  great  mind  to  give  him  a  slap  in  the  face. 

Prin.  {Aside).  This  pride  confounds  me  !  I  am  so 
vexed  that  I  am  beside  myself! 

MoR,  {In  a  whisper  to  the  Prince).  Courage,  my  lord ; 
everything  goes  as  well  as  can  be. 

Eur.  {To  Moron).  Ah,  Moron,  I  am  exhausted  !  I 
have  made  strange  efforts. 


54  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  in. 

Prin.  (^To  Euryalus).  You  must  be  very  unfeeling,  in- 
deed, to  talk  as  you  do. 

Eur.  Heaven  has  not  made  me  of  another  disposition. 
But,  madam,  I  interrupt  your  walk,  and  my  respect  ought 
to  inform  me  that  you  love  solitude. 

Scene  V. — The  Princess,  Moron. 

MoR.  He  is  not  inferior  to  you,  madam,,  in  hardness  of 
heart. 

Prin.  I  would  willingly  give  all  I  possess  in  the  world 
to  triumph  over  him. 

Mor.  I  believe  you. 

Prin.  Could  not  you  serve  me,  Moron,  in  such  a  de- 
sign? 

Mor.  You  know  well,  madam,  that  I  am  wholly  at  your 
service. 

Prin.  Speak  of  me  to  him  in  your  conversation.  Cun- 
ningly praise  my  charms  and  my  lofty  birth ;  try  to  shake 
his  resolution  by  encouraging  him  to  hope ;  I  give  you 
leave  to  say  all  you  think  fit,  to  try  to  make  him  in  love 
with  me. 

Mor.  Leave  it  to  me. 

Prin.  It  is  a  thing  I  have  set  my  heart  on.  I  ardently 
wish  he  may  love  me. 

Mor.  It  is  true,  the  little  rascal  is  well  made ;  he  has  a 
good  appearance,  a  good  countenance,  and  I  believe  would 
suit  very  well  a  certain  young  Princess. 

Prin.  You  may  expect  anything  from  me,  if  you  can 
but  find  means  to  inflame  his  heart  for  me. 

MoR.  Nothing  is  impossible ;  but,  madam,  if  he  should 
come  to  love  you,  pray  what  would  you  do  ? 

Prin.  Oh,  then  I  would  take  delight  in  fully  triumph- 
ing over  his  vanity ;  I  would  punish  his  disdain  by  my 
coldness,  and  practise  on  him  all  the  cruelties  I  could 
imagine. 

Mor.  He  will  never  yield. 

Prin.  Ah  !  Moron,  we  must  make  him  yield. 

MoR.  No,  he  will  not ;  I  know  him ;  my  labour  will  be 
in  vain. 

Prin.  We  mmt,  however,  try  everything,  and  prove  if 


scBNB  11.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  55 

his  soul  be  entirely  insensible.     Come,  I  will  speak  to  him, 
and  follow  an  idea  which  has  just  come  into  my  head. 


FO  UR  TH  INTERL  UDE. 

Scene  I. — Phillis,  Tircis. 

Phil.  Come,  Tircis,  let  them  go,  and  depict  to  me 
your  sufferings,  in  the  manner  you  know.  Your  eyes 
have  spoken  to  me  for  a  long  time,  but  I  should  be  more 
glad  to  hear  your  voice. 

TiR.  {Sings).  Alas  !  you  listen  to  my  sad  complaints; 
but,  O  matchless  fair  one,  I  am  not  the  better  for  it;  I 
make  an  impression  on  your  ears,  but  not  on  your  heart. 

Phil.  Well,  well,  it  is  something  to  touch  the  ear;  time 
will  produce  the  rest.  Meanwhile,  sing  me  some  little 
ditty  that  you  have  made  for  me. 

Scene  II. — Moron,  Piiillis,  Tircis. 

MoR.  Oh  !  have  I  caught  you,  cruel  one  ?  You  slink 
away  from  the  company  to  listen  to  my  rival  ? 

Phil.  Yes,  I  slink  away  for  that  reason.  I  repeat  it  to 
you,  I  find  a  pleasure  in  his  company ;  we  hearken  will- 
ingly to  lovers  when  they  complain  so  agreeably  as  he 
does.  Why  do  you  not  sing  like  him  ?  I  should  then. 
take  a  delight  in  listening  to  you. 

Mor.  If  I  cannot  sing,  I  can  do  other  things;  and 
when  .    .    . 

Phil.  Be  silent,  I  wish  to  hear  him.  Tircis,  say  what 
you  like. 

MoR.  Ah !  cruel  one  .    .    . 

Phil.  Silence,  I  say,  or  I  shall  get  angry. 

TiR.  {Sings).  Ye  tufted  trees  ;  and  ye  enamelled 
meads ;  that  beauty  winter  stript  you  of  is  restored  to  you 
by  spring.  You  resume  all  your  charms ;  but,  alas  !  my 
soul  cannot  resume  the  joy  it  has  lost ! 

MoR.  Zounds  !  why  cannot  I  sing  ?  Oh  !  stepmotherly 
nature,  why  did  you  not  give  me  the  means  of  singing  like 
any  other? 

Phil.  Really,  Tircis,  nothing  can  be  more  agreeable, 
and  you  bear  away  the  bell  from  all  your  rivals. 


56  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  m. 

MoR.  But  why  can  I  not  sing  ?  Have  I  not  a  stomach, 
a  throat,  and  a  tongue,  as  well  as  as  any  other  man  ?  Yes, 
yes,  come  on  then.  I  too  will  sing,  and  show  you  that 
love  enables  one  to  do  all  things.  Here  is  a  song  I  made 
for  you. 

Phil.  Come,  sing  it  then  ;  I  shall  listen  to  you  for  the 
novelty  of  the  thing. 

MoR.  Pluck  up  your  courage.  Moron,  there  is  nothing 
like  boldness.  {He  sings).  Your  extreme  severity  cruelly 
wounds  my  heart.  Ah  !  Phillis,  I  am  dying  ;  deign  to 
lend  me  some  assistance.  Will  you  be  the  stouter  for  it, 
because  you  have  allowed  me  to  die  ?  .  .  .  Well  said, 
Moron. 

Pail.  That  is  very  well.  But, 'Moron,  I  should  like 
very  much  the  glory  of  having  some  lover  die  for  me  !  It 
is  an  advantage  I  have  not  yet  enjoyed  j  I  find  I  should 
love  with  all  my  heart  a  person  who  would  love  me  suffi- 
ciently to  kill  himself. 

MoR.  You  would  love  the  person  that  would  kill  him- 
self for  you  ? 

Phil.  Yes. 

MoR.  That  is  the  only  thing  to  please  you  ? 

Phil.  Ay. 

MoR.  It  is  done  then.  I  will  show  you  that  I  can  kill 
myself  when  I  have  a  mind  to  it. 

TiR.  (Sings').  Ah  !  how  pleasant  it  is  to  die  for  the 
object  one  loves. 

MoR.  {To  Tircis).  It  is  a  pleasure  you  may  have  when 
you  like. 

TiR.  {Sings).  Take  courage.  Moron,  quickly  die,  like 
a  generous  lover. 

MoR.  {To  Tircis).  Pray,  mind  your  own  business, 
and  let  me  kill  myself  as  I  like.  Come,  I  will  shame  all 
lovers.  {To  Phillis).  Behold,  I  am  not  a  man  who 
makes  many  compliments.  Do  you  see  this  dagger  ? 
Pray,  observe  how  I  shall  pierce  my  heart.  {Laughing  at 
Tircis).  I  am  your  servant ;  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  I 
look. 

Phil.  Come,  Tircis,  repeat  to  me,  in  an  echo,  what  you 
have  sung. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  57 

ACT  IV. — Argument. 

The  Princess  of  Elis,  hoping  by  a  stratagem  to  discover  the  sentiments  of 
the  Prince  of  Ithaca,  confides  to  him  that  she  loves  the  Prince  of  Mes- 
sena.  Instead  of  seeming  concerned  at  it,  he  gives  her  tit-for-tat,  and 
tells  her  that  he  is  enamoured  of  the  Princess,  her  relative,  and  that 
he  will  demand  her  in  marriage  of  the  King,  her  father.  At  this  un- 
expected news,  the  Princess  of  Elis  loses  all  firmness,  and  although 
she  tries  to  restrain  herself  before  him,  yet,  as  soon  as  he  is  gone,  she 
so  earnestly  entreats  her  cousin  not  to  listen  favourably  to  this  Prince, 
and  never  to  marry  him,  that  she  cannot  refuse.  The  Princess  com- 
plains even  to  Moron,  who,  having  freely  told  her  that  it  was  a  sign 
she  loved  the  Prince  of  Ithaca,  is  driven  from  her  presence  an  account 
of  his  remark. 

•  Scene  I. — The  ^rincess,  Euryalus,  Moron. 

Prin.  Prince,  as  hitherto  we  have  shown  a  conformity 
of  sentiment,  and  Heaven  seems  to  have  imbued  us  both 
with  the  same  affection  for  liberty  and  the  same  aversion 
to  love,  I  am  glad  to  open  my  heart  to  you,  and  to  en- 
trust you  with  the  secret  of  a  change  which  will  surprise 
you.  I  have  always  looked  upon  marriage  as  a  frightful 
thing,  and  have  vowed  rather  to  abandon  life  than  to 
resolve  ever  to  lose  that  liberty  of  which  I  was  so  fond ; 
but  now,  one  moment  has  dispersed  all  these  resolutions. 
The  merit  of  a  certain  prince  has  to-day  become  obvious 
to  me  ;  my  soul  suddenly,  as  it  were  by  a  miracle,  has 
become  sensible  to  that  passion  which  I  have  always 
despised.  I  presently  found  reasons  to  authorize  this 
change ;  I  may  attribute  it  to  my  willingness  to  satisfy 
the  eager  solicitations  of  a  father,  and  the  wishes  of  a 
whole  kingdom ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  dread  the 
judgment  you  may  pass  upon  me,  and  would  fain  know 
whether  or  not  you  will  condemn  my  design  of  taking  a  ■ 
husband. 

Eur.  You  may  make  such  a  choice,  madam,  that   I 
should  certainly  approve  of  it. 

Prin.  Whom  do  you  think,  in  your  opinion,  I  intend 
to  choose  ? 

Eur.  If  I  were  in  your  heart  I  could  tell  you ;  but  as  I 
am  not,  I  do  not  care  to  answer  you. 

Prin.  Guess,  name  some  one. 

Eur.  I  am  too  much  afraid  of  making  a  mistake. 


58  THE  PRINCESS  OF  EUS.  f act  iv. 

Prin.  But  for  whom  would  you  wish  that  I  should  de- 
clare myself? 

Eur.  I  know  well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  for  whom  I 
could  wish  it ;  but,  before  I  explain  myself,  I  must  know 
your  thoughts. 

Prin.  Well,  Prince,  I  will  disclose  it  to  you.  I  am 
sure  you  will  approve  of  my  choice ;  and,  to  hold  you  no 
longer  in  suspense,  the  Prince  of  Messena  is  he  whose 
merit  has  made  me  love  him. 

Eur.   {Aside).     Oh,  Heavens  ! 

Prin.  {Aside  to  Moron).  My  invention  has  succeeded, 
Moron.     He  is  disturbed. 

MoR.  {To  the  Princess).  Good,  madam,  {To  the 
Ptince).  Take  courage,  my  lord.  -{To  the  Princess).  He 
is  hit  hard.     {To  the  Prince).     Do  not  be  disheartened. 

Prin.  {To  Euryalus).  Do  you  not  think  that  I  am  in 
the  right,  and  that  the  Prince  possesses  very  great  merit? 

MoR.  {Aside  to  the  Prince).  Recover  yourself  and 
answer. 

Prin.  How  comes  it.  Prince,  that  you  do  not  say  a 
word,  and  seem  thunderstruck  ? 

Eur.  I  am  so,  indeed,  and  I  wonder,  madam,  that 
Heaven  could  form  two  souls  so  alike  in  everything  as 
ours ;  two  souls  in  which  are  seen  the  greatest  conformity 
of  sentiment,  which  have  shown,  at  the  same  time,  a  re- 
solution to  brave  the  power  of  love,  and  which,  in  the 
same  instant,  have  shown  an  equal  facility  in  losing  the 
character  of  insensibility.  For,  in  short,  madam,  since 
your  example  authorizes  me,  I  shall  not  scruple  to  tell  you 
that  love,  this  very  day,  has  mastered  my  heart,  and  that 
one  of  the  princesses,  your  cousins,  the  amiable  and  beau- 
tiful Aglanta,  has  overthrewn  with  a  glance  all  my  proud 
projects.  I  am  overjoyed,  madam,  that  we  cannot  re- 
proach each  other,  as  we  are  equally  defeated.  I  do  not 
doubt  that,  as  I  praise  your  choice  greatly,  you  shall  also 
approve  mine.  This  miracle  must  become  apparent  to  all 
the  world,  and  we  ought  not  to  delay  making  ourselves 
both  happy.  For  my  part,  madam,  I  solicit  your  influ- 
ence, so  that  I  may  obtain  her  I  desire ;  you  will  not  ob- 
ject that  I  go  immediately  to  ask  her  hand  of  the  Prince, 
your  father. 


SCENE  III.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  59 

MoR.  {Aside  to  Euryalus).  Ah,  worthy  heart !  ah, 
brave  spirit ! 

Scene  II. — The  Princess,  Moron. 

Prin.  Ah,  Moron !  I  am  undone.  This  unexpected 
blow  absolutely  triumphs  over  all  my  firmness. 

Mor.  It  is  a  surprising  blow,  it  is  true  ;  I  thought  at 
first  that  your  stratagem  had  taken  effect. 

Prin.  Ah  !  this  vexation  is  enough  to  drive  me  mad  ! 
Another  has  the  advantage  of  subduing  a  heart  which  I 
wished  to  conquer. 

Scene  III. — The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Moron. 

Prin.  Princess,  I  have  one  thing  to  beg  of  you,  which 
you  absolutely  must  grant  me.  The  Prince  of  Ithaca 
loves  you,  and  designs  to  ask  your  hand  of  the  Prince,  my 
father. 

Agl.  The  Prince  of  Ithaca,  madam  ! 

Prin.  Yes ;  he  has  just  now  told  me  so  himself,  and 
asked  my  consent  to  obtain  your  hand  ;  but  I  conjure  you 
to  reject  this  proposal,  and  not  lend  an  ear  to  what  he 
may  say. 

Agl.  But,  madam,  if  it  be  true  that  this  prince  really 
loves  me,  and  as  you  have  yourself  no  design  to  gain  his 
affections,  why  will  you  not  suffer  .    .    . 

Prin.  No,  Aglanta,  I  desire  it  of  you.  I  beg  you  to 
gratify  me  so  far ;  and,  as  I  have  not  the  advantage  of 
subduing  his  heart,  let  me  have  the  pleasure  of  depriving 
him  of  the  joy  of  obtaining  yours. 

Agl.  Madam,  I  must  obey  you  ;  but  I  should  think  the 
conquest  of  such  a  heart  no  contemptible  victory. 

Prin.  No,  no,  he  shall  not  have  the  pleasure  of  braving 
me  entirely. 

Scene   IV. — The  Princess,  Aristomenes,  Aglanta, 

Moron. 
Aris.  Madam,  at  your  feet  I  come  to  thank  love  for  my 
happy  fate,  and  to  testify  to  you,  by  my  transports,  how 
grateful  I  am  for  the  surprising  goodness  with  which  you 
deign  to  favour  the  most  humble  of  your  captives. 
Prin.  How  ? 


60  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  iv. 

Arts.  The  Prince  of  Ithaca,  madam,  just  now  assured 
me  that,  with  regard  to  that  celebrated  choice  which  all 
Greece  awaits,  your  heart  had  been  kind  enough  to  declare 
itself  in  my  favour. 

Prin,  He  told  you  that  he  had  it  from  my  mouth? 

Aris.  Yes,  madam. 

Prin.  He  is  thoughtless,  and  you  are  a  little  too  credu- 
lous, prince,  to  believe  so  hastily  what  he  told  you  ;  such 
news,  in  my  opinion,  should  have  been  doubted  for  some 
time ;  and  you  could  have  done  no  more  than  believe  it, 
if  I  myself  had  told  it  you. 

Aris.  Madam,  if  I  have  been  too  ready  in  persuading 
myself .    .    . 

Prin.  Pray,  my  lord,  let  us  break  off  this  conversation  ; 
and,  if  you  will  oblige  me,  let  me  enjoy  a  moment's  solitude. 

Scene  V. — The  Princess,  Aglanta,  Moron, 

Prin.  With  what  strange  severity  Heaven  uses  me  in 
this  adventure !  At  least,  Princess,  remember  the  request 
I  have  made  to  you. 

Agl.  I  have  already  told  you,  madam,  that  you  shall 
be  obeyed. 

Scene  VI. — The  Princess,  Moron.  • 

Mor.  But,  madam,  if  he  loved  you,  you  would  not  have 
him,  and  yet  you  will  not  let  him  be  another's.  It  is  just 
like  the  dog  in  a  manger."* 

Prin.  No,  I  cannot  bear  that  he  should  be  happy  with 
another.  If  such  a  thing  is  to  be,  I  believe  I  shall  die 
with  vexation. 

Mor.  Come,  madam,  confess  all.  You  would  fain  have 
him  for  yourself ;  and  in  all  your  actions  it  is  easily  seen 
that  you  rather  love  this  young  prince 

Prin.  I,  I  love  him?  Oh,  Heavens !  I  love  him?  Have 
you  the  insolence  to  pronounce  those  words  ?  Out  of  my 
sight,  impudent  man,  and  never  let  me  see  you  again. 

•*  A  dog  in  a  manger  cannot  himself  eat  the  com  and  straw  that  are 
there,  but  barks  if  any  other  animal  approaches,  and  will  not  allow  it  to 
eat  in  peace ;  this  is  called  in  French  faire  comme  le  chien  du  jardinier— 
because  a  dog  cannot  eat  cabbage,  and  does  not  permit  others  to  eat  it. 


SCENE  VII.]  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  6l 

MoR.  Madam  .    .    . 

Prin.  Begone,  I  say,  or  I  shall  make  you  leave  in  an- 
other manner 

MoR.  {Aside).  Upon  my  word,  her  heart  is  no  longer 
free,  and  .  .  .  {The  Princess  casts  a  look  upon  him  which 
sends  him  away). 

Scene  VII. — The  Princess,  alone  . 

What  unknown  emotion  do  I  feel  in  my  heart !  What 
secret  uneasiness  suddenly  disturbs  the  tranquillity  of  my 
soul !  Is  it  not  what  I  have  just  been  told,  and  do  I  love 
this  young  prince  without  knowing  it !  Ah  !  if  it  were 
so,  I  should  be  in  despair.  But  it  is  impossible  it  should 
be  so,  and  I  plainly  perceive  that  I  can  never  love  him. 
What !  I  be  capable  of  that  baseness  !  I  have  seen  the 
whole  world  at  my  feet  with  the  utmost  insensibility.  Re- 
spect, homage,  submission,  could  never  touch  my  soul ; 
and  shall  haughtiness  and  disdain  triumph  over  it  ?  I  have 
despised  all  those  who  have  loved  me,  and  shall  I  love  the 
only  one  who  despises  me  \  No,  no,  I  know  well  I  do  not 
love  him ;  there  is  no  reason  for  it.  But  if  this  is  not  love 
which  I  now  feel,  what  can  it  be?  And  whence  comes 
this  poison  which  runs  through  all  my  veins,  and  will  not 
let  me  rest?  Out  of  my  heart,  whatever  you  may  be,  you 
enemy  who  lurk  there  !  Attack  me  openly,  and  appear 
before  me  as  the  most  frightful  monster  of  all  our  forests,  so 
that  with  my  darts  and  javelins  I  may  rid  myself  of  you. 


FIFTH  INTERL  UDE. 

Scene  I. — The  Princess,  alone. 

O,  you  admirable  ones,  who  by  your  sweet  songs  can 
calm  the  greatest  uneasiness,  draw  near,  I  pray  you,  and 
try  to  soothe,  with  your  music,  the  sorrow  which  I  feel. 

Scene  II. — The  Princess,  CLiMfeNE,  Phillis. 
{Climene  and  Phillis  sing  this  duet). 
Clim.  Tell  me,  dear  Phillis,  what  think  you  of  love  ? 
Phil.  Tell  me,  what  think  you,  my  'dear  trusty  friend  ? 


62  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  [act  v. 

Clim.  They  say  its  flame  is  worse  than  vulture's  gnawing, 

And  that  great  pangs  are  suffered  when  one  loves. 
Phil.  They  say  no  fairer  passion  e'er  existed, 

And  that  we  live  not,  if  we  do  not  love. 
Clim.  Which  of  us  two  shall  be  victorious  here? 
Phil.  Must  we  believe  love  to  be  good  or  ill  ? 
Both.  Let's  love,  and  then  we'll  know 

What  we  ought  to  believe. 
Phil.   Chloris  praises  love  and  its  flames  everywhere. 
Clim.  For  its  sake,  Amarant  sheds  always  tears. 
Phil.  If  it  fills  every  heart  with  so  much  pain 

Whence  comes  it  that  we  like  to  yield  to  it  ? 
Clim.  If,  Phillis,  its  flame  is  so  full  of  charms 

Why  forbid  us  its  pleasures  to  enjoy  ? 
Phil.  Which  of  us  two  shall  be  victorious  here  ? 
Clim.  Must  we  believe  love  to  be  good  or  ill  ? 
Both.  Let's  love,  and  then  we'll  know 

What  we  ought  to  believe. 
Prin.     {Interrupting  them  here,  says).     Finish  alone,  if 
you  like.     I  cannot  remain  at  rest ;  and  however  agreeable 
your  songs  are,  they  do  but  redouble  my  uneasiness. 


ACT  V. — ^Argument. 

The  heart  of  the  Prince  of  Messena  was  agitated  by  various  feelings ;  the 
joy  which  the  Prince  of  Ithaca  had  caused  by  maliciously  informing 
him  that  he  was  beloved  by  the  Princess,  had  compelled  him  to  go  to 
her,  with  a  want  of  consideration  which  nothing  but  extreme  love  could 
excuse ;  but  he  was  received  in  a  manner  very  different  from  what  he 
hoped  for.  She  asked  him  who  had  told  him  that  news ;  and  when 
she  knew  that  it  was  the  Prince  of  Ithaca,  that  knowledge  cruelly  in- 
creased her  disease,  and  made  her  nearly  beside  herself.  She  replied, 
"  He  is  thoughtless."  This  so  confounded  the  Prince  of  Messena  that 
he  departed  without  being  able  to  answer.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
Princess  went  to  the  King,  her  father,  who  came  with  the  Prince  of 
Ithaca,  and  told  the  latter  not  only  how  dehghted  he  should  be  to  see 
him  allied  to  him,  but  even  the  opinion  he  entertained  that  his  daugh- 
ter did  not  hate  him.  No  sooner  was  the  Princess  in  her  father's  pre- 
sence than,  casting  herself  at  his  feet,  she  asked  him.  as  the  greatest 
favour  she  could  ever  receive,  that  the  Prince  of  Ithaca  might  not 
marry  the  Princess  Aglanta.  This  he  solemnly  promised  her ;  but  he 
told  her  that  if  she  did  not  wish  him  to  belong  to  another,  she  should 
take  him  herself.  She  answered  "that  the  Prince  did  not  desire  it," 
but  in  such  a  passionate  manner  that  it  was  easy  to  see  the  sentiments 
of  her  heart  Then  the  Prince,  abandoning  all  disguise,  avowed  his 
love  for  her,  and  the  stratagem  which,  knowing  her  disposition,  he  had 


SCENE  II.]  THE   PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  63 

made  use  of,  in  order  to  attain  the  object  he  had  now  reached.  The 
Princess  giving  him  her  hand,  the  King  turned  towards  the  two  Princes 
of  Messena  and  Pylos,  and  asked  them  if  his  two  relatives,  whose  me- 
rit was  equal  to  their  rank,  were  incapable  of  consoling  them  in  their 
disgrace.  They  answered  that,  the  honour  of  his  alliance  being  all 
they  wished  for,  they  could  not  expect  a  happier  lot.  This  occasioned 
so  great  a  joy  in  the  Court,  that  it  spread  over  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood. 

Scene  I. — Iphitas,  Euryalus,  Aglanta,  Cynthia, 
Moron. 

MoR.  (^To  Iphitas).  Yes,  my  lord,  it  is  no  jest;  I  am 
what  they  call  in  disgrace.  I  was  forced  to  pack  up  my 
traps  as  quickly  as  I  could  ;  you  never  saw  any  one  more 
suddenly  in  a  passion  than  she  was. 

Iph.  (yTo Euryalus).  Ah,  Prince  !  how  grateful  I  ought 
to  be  for  your  amorous  stratagem,  if  it  has  found  the 
secret  of  touching  her  heart  ! 

Eur.  Whatever,  my  lord,  you  may  have  been  told,  I 
dare  not,  for  my  part,  yet  flatter  myself  with  that  sweet 
hope  ;  but  if  it  is  not  too  presumptuous  in  me  to  aspire 
to  the  honour  of  your  alliance,  if  my  person  and  domin- 
ions .    .    . 

Iph.  Prince,  let  us  not  enter  upon  these  compliments. 
I  find  in  you  all  that  a  father  could  desire ;  and  if  you 
have  gained  the  heart  of  my  daughter,  you  want  nothing 
more. 

Scene  II. — The  Princess,  Iphitas,  Euryalus,  Aglanta, 
Cynthia,  Moron. 

Prin.  Oh,  Heaven  !  what  do  I  see  here  ! 

Iph.  ( To  Euryalus).  Yes,  the  honour  of  your  alliance 
is  of  the  highest  value  to  me ;  and  without  any  farther 
difficulty  I  consent  to  your  request. 

Prin.  (^To  Iphitas).  My  lord,  I  throw  myself  at  your 
feet  to  beg  a  favour  of  you.  You  have  always  shewn  great 
tenderness  to  me  ;  I  owe  you  much  more  for  your  kind- 
ness than  for  my  birth.  But  if  ever  you  had  any  affection 
for  me,  I  now  ask  the  greatest  proof  of  it  which  you  can 
show.  My  lord,  do  not  listen  to  that  prince's  request 
and  do  not  permit  the  princess  Aglanta  to  marry  him, 

Iph.  And  why,  daughter,  would  you  oppose  that 
union  ? 


64  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  iv. 

Prin.  Because  I  hate  the  Prince,  and  will,  if  I  can, 
cross  his  designs. 

Iph.  You  hate  him,  daughter  ? 

Prin.  Yes,  from  my  heart  I  confess  it. 

Iph.  And  what  has  he  done  to  you? 

Prin.  He  has  despised  me. 

Iph.  And  how? 

Prin.  He  did  not  consider  me  handsome  enough  to 
pay  his  addresses  to  me. 

Iph.  What  offence  does  that  give  you?  You  will 
accept  no  one's  hand. 

Prin.  No  matter.  He  ought  to  have  loved  me  like  the 
rest,  and  at  least  have  left  me  the  glory  of  refusing  him. 
His  love  for  Aglanta  is  an  insult  to  me  ;  he  disgraces  me 
when,  in  my  presence  and  in  the  midst  of  your  court,  he 
has  sought  the  hand  of  any  other  but  me, 

Iph.  But  what  interest  can  you  have  in  him  ? 

Prin.  My  lord,  I  wish  to  revenge  myself  for  his  dis- 
dain ;  and  as  I  know  he  is  very  much  in  love  with  Aglanta, 
with  your  permission  I  shall  prevent  him  from  being 
happy  with  her. 

Iph.  Then  you  take  this  to  heart  ? 

Prin.  Without  doubt,  my  lord ;  and  if  he  obtains  his 
desires,  I  shall  die  before  your  eyes. 

Iph.  Come,  come,  daughter,  make  a  frank  confession. 
This  Prince's  merit  has  made  you  open  your  eyes;  and  in 
short,  you  love  him,  say  what  you  will. 

Prin.  I,  my  lord  ? 

Iph.  Yes,  you  love  him. 

Prin.  I  love  him,  say  you  ?  Do  you  impute  such  base- 
ness to  me  ?  Oh,  Heavens !  how  great  is  my  misfortune ! 
Can  I  hear  these  words  and  live  ?  And  must  I  be  so  un- 
happy as  to  be  suspected  of  loving  him  ?  Oh !  if  it  were 
anyone  but  you,  my  lord,  who  spoke  thus  to  me,  I  know 
not  what  I  should  do. 

Iph.  Well,  well,  you  do  not  love  him.  You  hate  him, 
I  grant;  and  I  am  resolved  to  content  you,  so  that  he 
shall  not  wed  the  Princess  Aglanta. 

Prin.  Oh  !  my  lord,  you  give  me  life. 

Iph.  But  to  prevent  his  ever  being  hers,  you  must  take 
him  for  yourself. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  PRINCESS   OF   ELIS.  6$ 

Prin.  You  are  joking,  my  lord,  and  that  is  not  what  he 
desires. 

Eur.  Pardon  me,  madam,  I  am  rash  enough  to  aspire 
so  high,  and  I  take  to  witness  the  prince,  your  father, 
if  it  was  not  your  hand  I  asked  of  liim.  I  have  deceived 
you  too  long ;  I  must  throw  off  the  mask,  and,  though  you 
use  it  against  me,  discover  to  your  eyes  the  real  sentiments 
of  my  heart.  I  have  never  loved  anyone  but  you,  and 
never  shall  I  love  any  other.  It  is  you,  madam,  who  took 
from  me  that  want  of  feeling  which  I  always  affected  ;  all 
I  said  to  you  was  only  a  feint  which  I  adopted,  inspired  by 
some  secret  motive  which  I  did  not  follow  up  without  doing 
the  greatest  violence  to  my  feelings.  It  must  soon  have 
ceased,  no  doubt,  and  I  am  only  astonished-  that  it  lasted 
for  half  a-day  ;  for  I  was  dying,  my  soul  was  burning  within 
me,  when  I  disguised  my  sentiments  to  you ;  never  did  a 
heart  suffer  a  constraint  equal  to  mine.  If  this  feint, 
madam,  has  given  you  offence,  I  am  ready  to  die  to  avenge 
you ;  you  have  only  to  speak,  and  my  hand  will  imme- 
diately glory  in  executing  the  decree  you  pronounce. 

Prin.  No,  no.  Prince,  I  do  not  take  it  ill  that  you  have 
deceived  me  ;  and  would  rather  that  all  you  have  said  to 
me  were  a  feint  than  not  the  truth. 

Iph.  So  that  you  accept  the  Prince  for  a  husband,  my 
daughter  ? 

Prin.  My  lord,  I  do  not  yet  know  what  I  shall  do. 
Pray  give  me  time  to  think  of  it,  and  spare  a  little  the  con- 
fusion I  am  in. 

Iph.  Prince,  you  may  guess  the  meaning  of  thisj  and 
you  can  now  see  what  you  may  expect. 

Eur.  I  shall  wait  as  long  as  you  please,  madam,  for  this 
decree  of  my  destiny ;  and,  if  it  condemns  me  to  death,  I 
shall  obey  without  murmuring. 

Iph.  Come,  Moron,  this  is  a  day  of  peace,  and  I  restore 
you  to  favor  with  the  Princess. 

Mor.  My  lord,  I  shall  be  a  better  courtier  for  the  future, 
and  shall  take  very  good  care  not  to  say  what  I  think. 

Scene  III. — Aristomenes,  Theocles,  Iphitas,  the  Prin- 
cess, Aglanta,  Cynthia,  Moron. 

Iph.    (  To  the  Princes  of  Messina   and  Pylos ).  I   am 

VOL.   IX.  E 


66  THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  [act  iv. 

afraid,  princes,  that  my  daughter's  choice  is  not  in  your 
favour ;  but  there  are  two  princesses  who  may  console  you 
for  this  trifling  misfortune.** 

Aris.  My  lord,  we  have  made  up  our  minds ;  and,  if 
these  amiable  Princesses  have  not  too  great  contempt  for 
hearts  which  have  been  repulsed,  we  may,  through  them, 
attain  to  the  honour  of  your  alliance. 

Scene  the  Last, Iphitas,   the  Princess,  Aglanta, 

Cynthia,  Phillis,  Euryalus,  Aristomenes,  Theocles, 
Moron. 

Phil.  {To  Iphitas).  My  lord,  the  goddess  Venus  has 
proclaimed  everywhere  the  change  in  the  Princess's  heart. 
All  the  shepherds  and  two  shepherdesses  testify  their  joy 
for  it  by  dances  and  songs ;  and,  if  it  is  not  a  spectacle 
which  you  despise,  you  may  see  the  public  rejoicings  ex- 
tend as  far  as  this. 


•*  The  hands  of  the  two  princesses,  Aglanta  and  Cynthia,  seem  to  be 
right  royally  disposed  of :  they  have  not  even  been  courted,  but  the  an- 
swers of  the  two  princes  denote  also  royal  causes  for  alliance. 


THE  PRINCESS  OF  ELIS.  67 


SIXTH  INTERLUDE. 

A  chorus  of  Shepherds  and  Shepherdesses,  who  dance. 

Four  Shepherds  and  two  Shepherdesses,  dressed  in  heroic 
style,  and  holding  each  other's  hands,  sing  this  song,  to 
which  the  rest  answer. 

Proud  fair,  employ  in  better  way 
The  power  of  charming  all  : 
Love,  darling  rustic  maidens: 
Our  hearts  are  made  to  love. 
However  much  we  e'er  may  try 
One  day  comes  when  we  love. 
Naught  does  exist  but  yet  it  yields 
To  the  sweet  charms  of  love. 
Id  pristine  youth,  oh  follow 
The  ardent  love's  delight. 
A  heart  only  begins  to  live 
The  day  it  knows  to  love. 
However  much,  etc.,  etc. 

The  rest  of  the  Interlude  will  be  found  in  the  Introductory 
Notice  to  this  comedy,  page  22. 


DON  JUAN,  OU  LE  FESTIN  DE  PIERRE. 

COMlfeDIE. 


DON  JUAN;  OR,  THE  FEAST  WITH  THE  STATUE 

A    COMEDY    IN   FIVE    ACTS. 

{THE  ORIGINAL  IN  PROSE.) 

February   15TH,    1665. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


After  Moli^re  had  written  Tartuffe,  he  found  it  impossible  to  get  per- 
mission to  play  it ;  all  his  attempts  were  in  vain  ;  the  clerical  party  was 
too  strong  for  him  ;  he  therefore  resolved  to  write  a  counterpart  to  it,  in 
Don  yuan,  or  the  Feast  -with  the  Statue,  This  play  was  acted  for  the  first 
time  on  the  15th  of  February,  1665.  It  contains,  perhaps,  more  severe 
attacks  upon  hypocrisy  than  does  even  Tar  tuff e.  It  depicts  the  hero  as 
a  man  who,  rich,  noble,  powerful,  and  bold,  respects  neither  heaven  nor 
earth,  and  knows  no  bounds  to  the  gratification  of  his  desires  or  his 
passions.  He  has  excellent  manners,  but  abominable  principles ;  he  is 
"  a  whited  sepulchre,"  and  abuses  the  privileges  of  nobility  without 
acknowledging  its  obligations  or  its  duties.  Moli^re  sketches  no  longer 
the  nobleman  as  ridiculous,  but  makes  him  terrible,  and  shows  that  his 
exaggerated  hatred  of  cant  leads  to  the  commission  of  the  greatest  im- 
moralities, and  to  Atheism.  After  having  seduced  and  abandoned  many 
fair  maids ;  after  having  insulted  his  father,  and  openly  flaunted  the  most 
sceptical  doctrines,  Don  Juan  turns  hypocrite ;  for  hypocrisy  is  the  chmax 
of  all  vices.  But  although  the  hero  of  the  play  is  young,  elegant,  and 
profligate,  Molifere  makes  us  feel  all  the  while  that,  underneath  that  charm- 
ing exterior  lurks  something  venomous.  No  doubt  he  is  witty,  but  too 
sarcastic  to  be  pleasant.  He  is  sensual,  but  less  than  is  generally  thought. 
He  is  not  so  much  a  libertine,  as  a  man  who  loves  to  set  all  rules  of  de- 
cency, order,  and  morality  at  defiance.  What  attracts  him  is  something 
eccentric,  violent,  and  scandalous.  He  likes  to  seduce  a  nun,  or  an  inno- 
cent country  girl,  who  is  already  engaged ;  and  this  not  through  mere 
lust,  but  in  order  to  prove  that  he  can  trample  upon  all  human  laws  ;  just 
as  he  invites  to  supper  the  statue  of  a  man  whom  he  has  killed,  and  plays 
the  hypocrite  in  order  to  show  his  scorn  for  all  divine  laws.  He  is  not  a 
follower  of  the  modem  romantic  school,  always  in  pursuit  of  an  eternal 
idea  of  beauty,  and  fluttering  from  flower  to  flower ;  he  has  arrived  at  that 
stage  of  satiety  that  only  the  pangs  of  his  victims  can  produce  any  emo- 
tion in  him.  This  is  proved  by  the  remark  he  makes  to  Sganarelle  on 
beholding  Donna  Elvira  (Act  i.,  Scene  2,  page  86).  He  has  something 
of  the  cruelty  of  Lovelace  in  Richardson's  Clarissa  Harlowe,  and  like 
him,  is  faithful  to  his  friends,  generous  to  his  enemies,  but  at  the  same  time 
cowardly  enough  to  sacrifice  any  woman  to  his  caprices. 

But  Moli^re  has  not  made  the  hero  coarse  or  ribald  ;  his  language  is 
always  well  chosen ;  and  although  his  morahty  may  be  offensive,  his 
manners  are  never  so.  The  style  of  his  speech  is  generally  masterly,  often 

71 


72  DON  JUAN  ;   OR, 

eloquent,  and  not  seldom  characteristic  of  his  sneering,  insolent,  cruel, 
hypocritical  feelings.  The  author  sometimes  borders  upon  almost  forbid- 
den ground,  as,  for  example,  when  Don  Juan,  after  having  witnessed  the 
"surprising  miracle  of  a  moving  and  speaking  statue,"  says — "There  is 
really  something  in  that  which  I  do  not  understand ;  but,  whatever  it  may 
be,  it  is  not  capable  either  of  convincing  my  judgment,  or  of  shaking  my 
nerves." 

And  yet  this  play  made  far  less  sensation  than  Tartuffe,  and  its  repre- 
sentations were  never  forbidden.  The  reason  of  this  is  simple ;  Don 
yuan,  attacked  an  abstract  idea,  but  Tartuffe  satirized  a  particular  class, 
"  the  unco  guid." 

This  drama  came  originally  from  Spain.  A  very  old  legend  relates  how 
one  of  the  twenty-four  governors  of  Sevilla,  Doii  Juan  de  Tenorio,  ran 
away  with  the  daughter  of  the  venerable  Commander  Gonzalo  de  Ulloa, 
whom  he  killed  in  a  duel,  and  who  was  buried  in  the  church  of  the  Fran- 
ciscans, where  a  splendid  tomb  and  statue  were  erected  to  him.  For 
some  time,  the  murderer,  thanks  to  the  privileges  of  his  rank  and  the 
influence  of  his  family,  set  at  nought  human  justice,  when  a  rumour  was 
circulated  that,  Don  Juan  having  dared  to  insult  the  statue  of  his  victim, 
the  latter  had  come  down  from  his  marble  tomb,  had  seized  the  impious 
wretch,  and  had  precipitated  him  to  the  uttermost  depths  of  the  infernal 
regions.  Those  who  said  that  he  had  been  allured  into  the  church, 
under  some  pretext  or  other,  and  slain  there,  were  declared  unbelievers 
and  sceptics. 

One  of  the  Spanish  dramatists,  friar  Gabriel  Tellez,  who  lived  at  the 
beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  wrote,  under  the  name  of  Tirso  de 
Molina,  a  comedy  on  this  legend,  which  he  divided  into  three  Jomades  or 
days,  and  which  he  called  The  Seducer  of  Sevilla  and  the  Stone  Guest. 

The  action  opens  at  Naples,  where  a  certain  Duchess  Isabella,  of  whom 
Don  Juan,  under  the  feigned  name  of  Duke  Ottavio,  has  taken  advantage 
complains  loudly  to  the  king,  who  orders  the  guilty  one  to  be  seized. 
The  seducer  escapes,  and  is  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Tarragona,  in 
Spain,  where  he  meets  a  young  fisherman's  daughter,  Tisbea,  whom  he 
seduces  under  promise  of  marriage,  and  who,  when  undeceived,  throws 
herself  into  the  sea.  We  next  meet  him  at  Sevilla,  where,  under  the  name 
and  the  disguise  of  his  friend,  the  Marquis  de  la  Mota,  he  treats  Donna 
Anna  the  daughter  of  the  Commander  de  Ulloa,  as  he  had  treated  Isa- 
bella.' He  then  kills  the  Commander,  and  anew  takes  flight  into  the 
country,  where  he  meets  Aminta,  who  also  falls  a  victim  to  his  usual 
method'  of  promising  marriage.  Don  Juan  secretly  returns  to  Sevilla, 
and  sees  in  the  church  the  mausoleum  of  the  Commander  de  Ulloa, 
bearing  the  inscription  :  "  Here  the  most  loyal  of  gentlemen  awaits  until 
God  shall  avenge  him  on  a  traitor."  Don  Juan  and  his  servant,  Catali- 
non,  insult  him  and  invite  him  to  supper.  The  statue  makes  its  appear- 
ance  and  requests  Don  Juan  to  come  to  feast  with  him  the  next  evening 
at  ten  o'clock  in  the  chapel.  He  goes,  and  the  seventeenth  scene  of  the 
thTd  day  shows  us  the  funeral  feast,  in  which  Don  Juan  and  the  statue 
sup  on  scorpions  and  vipers,  drink  gall  and  vinegar ;  and  in  which,  finally, 
the  libertine  repents,  and  asks  for  a  priest  to  be  confessed  and  to  receive 
absolution.  The  last  scene  of  the  play  represents  the  Alcazar  at  Sevilla, 
where  the  king  repairs  the  crimes  of  Don  Juan  by  giving  all  his  victims 
away  in  marriage,  and  commands  the  tomb  and  statue  of  the  Commanaer 
to  be  brought  to  Madrid,  to  remain  there  as  a  warning  for  all  time.  The 
Spanish  Don  Juan  is  not  a  heartless  and  deUberate  seducer,  a  thorough 


THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE  73 

unbeliever  but  an  easy-going  fellow,  swayed  by  his  pafissioB,  who  does 
not  repent  because  he  thinks  he  has  sufficient  time  for  it,  and  at  the  final 
catastrophe  proves  himself  a  good  Roman  Catholic.  Moreover,  he  meets 
the  statue,  not  because  he  disbelieves  in  miracles,  but  because  he  has 
given  his  word  to  come,  and  "  the  dead  man  might  otherwise  have  the 
right  to  call  (him)  me  infamous."  The  impression  which  the  Spanish  play 
leaves  on  the  mind  is  eminently  a  religious  one,  and  must  have  been 
strongly  felt  at  the  time  it  was  written, — a  feeling  enhanced  by  the  scene 
in  the  chapel,  with  the  moonlight  shining  through  the  stained  glass  win- 
dows, and  the  chorus  singing  :  "  Let  those  who  flee  from  the  punishments 
of  God.  know  that  there  is  no  term  nor  debt  which  must  not  be  paid.  No 
mortal  living  should  say, '  I  have  time  before  me,'  for  the  time  of  repent- 
ance is  so  short." 

From  Spain,  this  drama  went  to  Italy,  where  Onifrio  Giliberti  wrote  an 
imitation  of  the  Spanish  play,  called  //  Convitato  di  fietra,  and  which 
was  performed  in  1652,  in  which  Don  Juan  appears  as  a  high-born  free- 
lover,  making  fun  of  everything,  and  even  of  the  gods.  In  1657,  the 
Italian  actors  of  Torelli,  who  played  at  the  Theatre  du  petit  Bourbon,  in 
Paris,  gave  a  harlequinade,  based  on  Gilibertis"  imitation.  This  piece  was 
full  of  broad  fun ;  and  Arlequin,  the  servant,  is  the  principal  character, 
whose  chief  business  seems  to  be  to  crack  jokes  and  to  indulge  in  practi- 
cal horse-play. 

The  actor  Dorimond,  in  1658,  translated  the  Italian  play  for  the  come- 
dians of  Mademoiselle  (see  Prefatory  Memoir,  Vol.  I.),  who  were  then  at 
Lyons,  and  brought  it  to  Paris  in  166 1.  The  translator  made  a  blunder 
in  the  very  title  of  the  piece.  //  convitato  means  "  The  guest ;"  but  Dori- 
mond thought  it  meant  "  feast,"  which  was  in  old  French  convive,  and  in 
Italian  convito,  and  thus  gave  to  his  piece  the  title,  Le  Festin  de  Pierre, 
the  Stone  Feast.  This  play  was  printed  only  in  1665,  after  the  great  suc- 
cess which  Moli^re's  comedy  obtained.  Villiers  also  versified  an  imitation 
of  Giliberti's  comedy  for  the  actors  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne,  with  the 
same  title  as  Dorimond's,  and  which  was  printed  in  1660.  It  is  probable 
that  the  Spanish  actors,  who  appeared  in  France  in  1659,  on  the  occasion 
of  the  marriage  of  Louis  XIV.,  with  the  Infanta  Maria  Theresa,  had  re- 
presented the  original  Spanish  play. 

Four  years  after  Moliere's  Don  yuan,  ou  le  Festin  de  Pierre — for  he 
kept  the  old  title  as  well — ^had  been  performed,  a  certain  actor,  Rosimond, 
wrote  for  the  Theatre  du  Marais  Le  Nouveau  Festin  de  Pierre,  ou  F  Athee 
foudroye,  in  which  he  made  of  Don  Juan  a  tiresome  controversialist. 

Don  yuan  was  played  from  February  isth,  1665,  until  the  20th  of 
March  of  the  same  year ;  but  produced  so  much  irritation  and  remarks 
that  several  scenes, — for  example,  that  between  the  poor  man  and  Don 
Juan,  and  the  boldest  remarks  in  the  dialogue  between  Don  Juan  and 
Sganarelle,  had  to  be  suppressed  at  once.  It  may  even  be  supposed  that 
Moli^re  received  a  hint  not  to  play  the  piece  again  ;  for  after  the  20th  of 
March  it  disappeared  for  a  long  time  from  the  scene. 

In  the  month  of  April  1665,  a  pamphlet  appeared,  called  Observations 
sur  une  Comedie  de  Moliere  intitulee  le  Festin  de  Pierre,  and  written  by  a 
clergfyman  called  de  Rochemont.  It  passed  through  three  or  four  edi- 
tions, which  followed  one  another  m  quick  succession,  and  is  written  in  a 
good  style,  but  full  of  the  most  bitter  animus  against  our  author.  It 
faintly  praises  Moliere,  admits  that  he  has  some  talent  for  farce,  that  he 
speaks  passable  French,  translates  Italian  pretty  well,  and  does  not  copy 
badly  other  authors  ;  but  states  that  he  is  always  the  same,  although  die 


74  DON  JUAN;  OR, 

public  should  be  indulgent  to  those  who  try  to  amuse  them.  If  Moli^re 
had,  in  the  Pricieuses,  only  criticised  the  little  doublets,  and  the  prodi- 
gious quantity  of  ribbands,  nobody  would  have  attacked  him,  or  been  in- 
dignant at  him  ;  but  to  make  fun  of  religion,  and  openly  to  display  scep- 
ticism, is  too  bad  for  a  mere  buffoon.  Don  yuan  has  caused  a  public 
scandal,  which  is  the  greater  because  it  was  performed  in  the  house  of  a 
Christian  prince,  and  in  the  presence  of  so  many  wise  and  pious  mag- 
istrates. Whilst  the  greatest  and  most  religious  monarch  in  the  world 
tries  to  destroy  heresy,  and  to  establish  real  devotion,  Molifere  raises 
altars  to  impiety ;  his  purpose  is  to  ruin  men  whilst  making  them  laugh  ; 
,the  malicious  ingenuousness  of  his  Agn^s  has  corrupted  more  maidens 
than  the  most  licentious  writings ;  Sganarelle  teaches  how  to  make  cuck- 
olds, and  The  School  for  Wives  how  to  debauch  them.  In  fact,  he  first 
destroys  the  morals  of  men,  and  then  their  religion.  To  use  his  own 
words  :  "  he  does  not  mind  if  people  criticise  his  pieces,  so  that  they  come 
to  see  them  "  i  and  pay  for  their  places.  Nothing  more  impious  has  ever 
appeared  than  Tartuffe  and  Don  yuan;  even  Pagan  emperors  con- 
demned to  death  those  who  ridiculed  religion.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  our 
great  Prince  will  put  a  stop  to  this  :  "  Deluge,  plague  and  famine  are  the 
consequences  of  Atheism  ;  when  Heaven  resolves  to  punish  it,  it  pours 
out  upon  us  all  the  vials  of  its  wrath  to  make  the  chastisement  more  im- 
pressive. The  wisdom  of  the  King  will  divert  those  misfortunes  which 
impiety  wishes  to  draw  upon  us  ;  it  will  establish  the  altars  which  it  en- 
deavours to  overturn ;  we  shall  see  everywhere  religion  triumph  over  its 
enemies,  under  the  sway  of  this  pious  and  invincible  monarch,  the  glory 
of  his  age,  the  ornament  of  his  states,  the  beloved  of  his  subjects,  the 
terror  of  the  unbelievers,  the  delight  of  the  whole  human  race.  Vivat 
rex,  vivat  in  (sternum  !  May  the  King  live,  but  may  he  live  eternally  for 
the  good  of  the  Church,  for  the  tranquillity  of  the  State,  and  for  the  hap- 
piness of  all  nations !" 

These  observations  were  answered  in  a  Lettre  sur  les  Observations  cP 
line  Comedi  du  Sieur  Moliere,  intitulee  Le  Festin  de  Pierre,  published 
also  in  1665,  in  which  the  author  defends  Moliere  ;  says  that  he  is  more 
than  a  mere  buffoon ;  that  the  very  fact  that  that  most  religious  King,  Louis 
XIV.,  allowed  Don  yuan  to  be  acted  before  him,  proves  that  there  is  no 
harm  in  the  play  ;  that  people  ought  not  to  accuse  Moliere  of  infidelity 
without  sufficient  proof;  tiiat  in  this  play  virtue  is  rewarded  and  vice 
punished ;  that  in  Don  yuan,  as  well  as  in  Tartuffe,  hypocrisy  only  is  at- 
tacked, but  not  real  religion  ;  and  that,  finally,  if  we  are  to  be  visited  by 
all  those  plagues  prophesied  by  the  Observateur,  the  hypocrites  will  be  the 
first  to  feel  the  effects  of  them. 

Another  very  badly  written  pamphlet  was  likewise  published  in  the 
same  year,  in  defence  of  Moliere,  having  for  its  title  Riponse  aux  Obser- 
vations touchant  Le  Festin  de  Pierre  de  Monsieur  de  Moliere. 

In  1667,  Don  yuan  re-appeared  on  the  French  stage,  but  remodelled 
and  put  into  verse  by  Thomas  Comeille.  This  version,  or  rather  perver- 
sion, of  Moli^re's  play  was  acted  until  the  15th  of  January  1847,  when 
the  comedy,  as  originally  written,  was  again  performed,  and  continues  to 
be  so  until  the  present  day. 

Sir  Aston  Cokain  wrote  The  Tragedy  of  Ovid,  which  was  printed  in 
1662,  but  which  was  never  acted.  In  this,  the  passage  of  Captain  Hanni- 
bal (Don  Juan)  inviting  the  dead  body  of  Helvidius  to  supper,  and  the 

^Sec  The  School  for  Wives  Criticised,  Vol.  I.,  Scene  vii. 


THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  75 

Spectre  accepting  it,  and  the  latter  afterwards  inviting  Hannibal  to  sup- 
per, as  well  as  the  final  catastrophe,  seem  borrowed  from  the  Italian  play 
//  Atheisto  fubninato,  from  which  Moli^re  appears  also  to  have  taken  sev- 
eral scenes.  In  any  case,  Cokain  cannot  have  borrowed  from  the  French 
author,  whose  play  was  not  brought  out  until  February  15th,  1665. 

Thomas  Shadwell  (see  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Bores,  Vol.  I,,  has, 
in  The  Libertine,  acted  at  Dorset  Garden  in  1676,  partly  imitated  Mo- 
li^re.  This  play  is  dedicated  to  William,  Duke  of  Newcastle ;  and  in  the 
preface  it  is  admitted  that  ''there  are  an  Italian,  a  Spanish,  and  four 
French  plays  on  the  story  of  Don  Juan,  the  character  of  the  libertine, 
and  consequently  those  of  his  friends  are  borrowed ;  but  all  the  plot  till 
the  latter  end  of  the  fourth  act  is  new."  This  seems  not  quite  true ;  for 
in  the  second  act  of  Shadwell's  comedy  there  are  evidently  some  scenes 
borrowed  from  MoliSre.  In  the  English  play,  Don  Juan  loves  wicked- 
ness, and  philosophizes  about  it  to  his  two  friends,  Don  Lopez  and  Don 
Antonio  ;  he  causes  his  own  father  to  be  murdered,  and,  on  the  whole, 
behaves  rather  like  a  madman.  The  scenes  between  Don  Juan,  The 
Statue,  and  Sganarelle — Jacomo  in  the  English  play — are  pretty  closely 
followed  from  Moli^re,  but  made  more  horrible.  Shadwell's  comedy 
met  with  great  success,  although  our  author  states :  "  there  being  no  act 
in  it  which  cost  me  above  five  days  writing,  and  the  two  last  (the  play- 
house having  great  occasion  for  a  play)  were  both  written  in  four  days." 
The  Prologue  opens  thus  : 

"  Our  Author  sent  me  hither  for  a  Scout, 
To  spy  what  bloody  Criticks  were  come  out.  - 
—  Those  Piccaroons  in  Wit,  wh'  infest  this  Road, 

And  snap  both  Friend  and  Foe  that  come  abroad. 
This  savage  Party  crueller  appears 
Than  in  the  Channel  Ostend  Privateers. 
You  in  this  Road,  or  sink  or  plunder  all ; 
Remorseless  as  a  Storm  on  us  you  fall.       "^ 
But  as  a  Merchant,  when  by  Storm  distres'd. 
Flings  out  his  bulky  goods  to  save  the  rest. 
Hoping  a  Calm  may  come,  he  keeps  the  best. 
In  this  black  Tempest  which  o'er  us  impends, 
Near  Rocks  and  Quicksands,  and  no  Port  of  Friends, 
Our  Poet  gives  this  over  to  your  Rage, 
The  most  irregular  Play  upon  the  Stage." 

Congreve  has  imitated,  in  Love  for  Love  (Act  i..  Scene  i),  acted  forthe 
first  time  in  Little  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  in  1695,  the  scene  from  Moli^re's 
Don  yuan  between  M.  Dimanche  and  the  hero  of  the  play.  Love  for 
Love  appears  to  me  to  be  a  free  imitation  of  three  of  Moli^re's  plays ; 
the  scenes  between  Valentine  and  Jeremy  are  something  like  those  be- 
tween Don  Juan  and  Sganarelle,  from  Don  yuan  ;  Scandal,  Tattle,  Mrs. 
Foresight,  and  Mrs.  Frail,  are  followed  from  similar  characters  in  The  Mis- 
anthrope  ;  whilst  Foresight  seems  Harpagon  from  The  Miser.  Love  for 
Love  was,  curiously  enough,  acted  entirely  by  women  June  25th,  27th, 
and  29th,  1705  ;  the  two  first  times  most  likely  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
the  last,  at  the  Haymarket. 

At  the  Royalty  Theatre  was  acted,  in  1787,  a  tragic  pantomimical  en- 
tertainment, called  Don  yuan,  or  the  Libertine  Destroyed,  composed  by 
M.  Delpini ;  the  songs,  duets,  and  choruses  by  Mr.  Reeve.  At  Drury 
Lane,  in  1790,  was  played  a  pantomime-ballet  of  the  same  name. 

Moncrieff  wrote  an  operatic  extravaganza,  in  two  acts,  called  Giovanni 
in  London,  or  the  Idbertine  Reclaimed.    ''  Don  Giovanni  having,  like  his 


76  DON  JUAN;    OR,   THE  FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE. 

noble  compeers,  made  the  grand  tour,  and  also  acquired  additional  no- 
toriety, by  being  forcibly  ejected  from  that  place  where  Telemachus  went 
to  look  for  his  father,  jumps  into  Charon's  boat,  re-passes  the  river  Styx, 
and  pays  a  visit  to  London,  for  the  purpose,  like  the  man  when  he  opened 
the  oysters,  of  astonishing  the  natives.  In  this  expedition  he  is  accom- 
panied by  his  valet,  pimp,  and  bottle-holder,  Leporello ;  and  whether  at 
the  Magpie  and  Punch-Bowl,  in  the  Borough — in  St.  Giles',  with  Mes- 
dames  Drainemdry,  Porous,  and  Simpkins — at  Chalk  Farm,  with  Finikin 
and  Popinjay — in  the  King's  Bench,  with  Shirk,  Sponge,  and  other  gen- 
tlemen who  pay  their  creditors  by  a  bill  at  three  months — or  at  Charing 
Cross,  in  company  with  King  Charles  on  horseback — their  adventures  are 
equally  wonderful  and  entertaining."  This  piece  was  originally  written 
for  the  Olympic  Theatre,  but  was  played  in  1827  both  at  Drury  Lane  and 
at  Covent  Garden.  In  the  last  mentioned  theatre  the  late  Madame 
Vestris  created  a  certain  furore,  in  acting  the  hero  of  the  piece. 

Thomas  Dibdin  wrote  a  similar  piece,  called  Don  Giovanni,  or  the 
Spectre  on  Horseback,  a  burlesque  on  Mozart's  celebrated  opera,  which 
was  acted  at  Bath,  on  the  19th  of  May,  1819. 

On  the  22d  of  December,  1821,  there  was  performed  at  Drury  Lane,  an 
opera  called  Giovanni  in  Ireland,  in  which  Madame  Vestris  again  played 
the  hero  ;  but  it  met  %vith  little  success. 

Goldine,  the  Italian  dramatist,  also  wrote  a  Don  yuan,  or  the  Libertine, 
a  comedy  in  five  acts,  and  in  blank  verse,  of  which  he  says  in  his  Auto- 
biography, "  Having  learned  enough  of  French  to  be  able  to  read  it,  I 
found  that  Moli^re  and  Thomas  Corneille  had  employed  their  talents  on 
the  same  subject ;  I  undertook  also  to  give  a  similar  treat  to  my  country- 
men, that  I  might  be  on  somewhat  decent  terms  with  the  devil.  I  could 
not,  it  is  true,  give  the  same  title  to  it ;  for  in  my  piece,  the  statue  of  the 
Commander  neither  speaks,  moves,  nor  goes  to  sup  in  town.  ...  I  could 
not  dispense  with  the  thunder  which  strikes  Don  Juan,  because  the  wicked 
deserve  to  be  punished  ;  but  I  brought  about  the  event  in  such  a  way  that 
it  might  either  be  an  immediate  effect  of  the  wrath  of  God,  or  might  pro- 
ceed from  a  combination  of  secondary  causes  under  the  direction  of  the 
laws  of  providence." 

Morart  also  composed  the  music  to  an  opera  called  Don  Giovanni, — 
in  which  the  Italian  librettist,  Delponte,  has  followed  rather  the  old 
Spanish  play  than  Molifere, — and  which  is  known  and  admired  wherever 
music  is  cultivated. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

Don  Juan,  son  to  Don  Louis. 

'    >■  brothers  to  Donna  Elvira. 
Don  Alonzo,  ) 

Don  'Louis,  father  to  Don  Juan. 

The  Statue  of  the  Commander.* 

Guzman,  gentleman-usher  to  Donna  Elvira. 

M.  Dimanche,  a  tradesman. 

Sganarelle,'  "> 

Violette,         \  servants  to  Don  Juan. 

Ragotin,         J 

Pierrot,  a  countryman. 

La  Ramee,  a  swashbuckler, 

A  Poor  Man, 

Don  Juan's  Followers. 

Don  Carlos'  and  Don  Alonzo' s  Followers. 

A  Ghost. 

Donna  Elvira,  wife  to  Don  Juan. 

Charlotte,  ") 

\  country-women. 
Mathurine,  3 


'  A  Commander  was  a  member  of  the  military-religious  order  of  the 
Knights  of  Malta,  or  of  any  other  similar  order,  who,  by  virtue  of  long  or 
meritorious  services,  had  the  control  of  a  manor,  with  lands  and  tene- 
ments appertaining  thereto,  part  of  the  proceeds  of  which  had  to  be  used 
for  the  benefit  of  that  order,  and  part  for  himself.  Such  a  manor  was 
called  a  commandery  or  preceptory. 

'  Moli^re  played  this  part.  In  the  inventory  taken  after  the  author's 
death,  we  see  :  "  a  deep  gold-coloured  satin  little  jerkin,  with  long  skirts, 
a  linen  jacket  with  gold  facings,  a  doublet  of  flowered  satin  for  the  Festitt 
de  Pierre."     I  doubt  if  this  was  part  of  the  dress  of  Sganarelle. 


DON  JUAN- 

OK, 

THE    FEAST    WITH    THE    STATUE. 

{^DON  yUAN:  OU,  LE  FESTIN  DE  PIERRE.) 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — {A  Palace). — Sganarelle,  Guzman. 

Scan.  {With  a  snuff-box  in  his  hand).  Whatever 
Aristotle  and  all  the  philosophers  may  say,  nothing  can  be 
compared  to  tobacco :  all  respectable  men  are  very  fond 
of  it,  and  he  who  lives  without  tobacco  deserves  not  to 
live.  It  not  only  enlivens  and  clears  a  man's  brains,  but 
it  alsd  teaches  men  to  be  virtuous ;  through  it  one  learns 
to  become  a  respectable  man.  Do  you  not  see  plainly,  as 
soon  as  we  take  it,  +iow  affable  we  become  with  everyone, 
and  how  delighted  we  are  to  give  right  and  left,  wherever 
we  are  ?  We  do  not  even  wait  till  it  is  asked  for,  but  we 
forestall  people's  wishes;  so  true  it  is  that  tobacco  inspires 
all  those  who  take  it  with  sentiments  of  honour  and  virtue.* 
But  enough  of  this ;  let  us  rather  resume  our  discourse. 
So,  then,  dear  Guzman,  Donna  Elvira,  your  mistress,  being 

*  Tobacco  had  been  in  use  for  more  than  a  century.  It  was  introduced 
into  France,  in  the  year  1560,  by  Jean  Nicot,  lord  of  Villemain,  ambassa- 
dor of  Francis  II.  at  the  Court  of  Madrid,  who  made  a  present  of  it  to  the 
Queen,  Catherine  de  Medici ;  hence  its  first  name  was  in  French  Herbe  df 
la  reine  or  Nicotiane. 

79 


8o  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  Tact  i. 

surprised  at  our  departure,  is  come  after  us ;  and  my  master 
has  touched  her  heart  so  intensely,  that  you  say  she  cannot 
exist  without  coming  here  in  search  of  him.  Between 
ourselves,  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  my  thoughts  ?  I  am 
afraid  her  love  will  be  ill  repaid,  that  her  journey  to  this 
city  will  produce  little  fruit,  and  that  you  would  have 
gained  just  as  much  had  you  never  stirred  from  the  spot. 

Guz.  And  pray,  Sganarelle,  what  can  inspire  you  with 
a  terror  which  so  augurs  ill  ?  Has  your  master  opened  his 
heart  to  you  on  that  subject,  and  did  he  tell  you  that  his 
coldness  for  us  obliged  him  to  leave  ? 

Sgan.  Not  at  all ;  but,  by  what  I  see,  I  know  pretty 
well  how  things  are ;  and,  although  he  has  not  yet  said 
anything  to  me,  I  could  almost  lay  a  wager  that  the  busi- 
ness is  tending  that* way.  I  may,  perhaps,  be  mistaken  ; 
but  yet,  in  such  cases,  experience  has  given  me  some  in- 
sight. 

Guz.  What !  Can  this  sudden  departure  be  caused  by 
the  faithlessness  of  Don  Juan.  Could  he  insult  so  greatly 
the  chaste  love  of  Donna  Elvira  ? 

Sgan.  No,  no,  he  is  young  yet,  and  has  not  the  courage 
to  .  .  . 

Guz.  Can  a  man  of  his  rank  commit  so  base  an  action  ! 

Scan.  Oh  yes,  his  rank  !  The  idea  is  really  admirable ; 
he  would  forbear  on  that  account ! 

Guz.  But  he  is  restrained  by  the  holy  bonds  of  matri- 
mony. 

Sgan.  Ah  !  poor  Guzman,  my  good  friend,  believe  me, 
you  do  not  know  yet  what  sort  of  man  Don  Juan  is. 

Guz.  Truly,  I  do  not  know  what  sort  of  a  man  he  may 
be,  if  he  has  acted  so  treacherously  towards  us.  I  do  not 
understand  how,  after  so  much  love  and  impatience  shown, 
such  homage  urged  upon  us,  such  vows,  sighs,  and  tears, 
so  many  passionate  letters,  such  ardent  protestations  and 
repeated  oaths,  such  transports  in  short,  and  such  out- 
bursts, forcing  even,  in  his  passion,  the  sacred  obstacle  of 
a  nunnery,  in  order  to  get  Donna  Elvira  in  his  power  ;  I 
do  not  understand,  I  say,  how  after  all  this,  he  should  have 
the  heart  to  break  his  word. 

Sgan.  I  have  no  great  difficulty  in  understanding  this ; 
and,  if  you  knew  the  fellow,  you  would  think  the  thing 


SCBNB  I.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  8 1 

easy  enough  for  him.  I  do  not  say  that  he  has  changed 
his  sentiments  for  Donna  Elvira ;  I  am  not  yet  quite  sure 
of  it.  You  know  that  he  ordered  me  to  set  out  before 
him ;  and  since  his  arrival,  he  has  not  spoken  to  me  ;  but, 
by  way  of  precaution,  I  tell  you,  between  ourselves,  that 
Don  Juan,  my  master,  is  one  of  the  greatest  scoundrels 
upon  earth,  a  madman,  a  dog,  a  demon,  a  Turk,  a  here- 
tick,  who  believes  neither  in  Heaven,  hell,  nor  devil,  who 
passes  his  life  like  a  regular  brute  beast,  one  of  Epicurus' 
swine,  a  true  Sardanapalus,  who  shuts  his  ears  against  all 
Christian  remonstrances  that  can  be  made  to  him,  and 
considers  all  that  we  believe  as  so  much  nonsense.  You 
tell  me  that  he  has  married  your  mistress ;  believe  me,  he 
would  have  done  more  to  satisfy  his  passion,  and  would, 
besides  herself,  have  married  you,  her  dog  and  her  cat  into 
the  bargain.  It  costs  him  nothing  to  contract  a  marriage  j 
he  uses  no  other  snares  to  entrap  the  fair  sex ;  and  he 
marries  whomsoever  he  can  get  hold  of.  A  lady,  gentle- 
woman, citizen's  daughter,  countrywoman ;  he  thinks 
nothing  too  hot  or  too  cold  for  him  ;  and  if  I  were  to  tell 
you  the  names  of  all  those  whom  he  has  married  in  differ- 
ent places,  I  would  not  have  finished  until  night.*  You 
seem  surprised  and  change  colour  at  what  you  hear ; 
this  is  a  mere  outline  of  the  man  ;  and  many  other  touches 
would  be  required  to  finish  the  picture.  Let  it  be  sufficient 
that  some  day  or  other  Heaven  must  needs  overwhelm  him 
with  its  wrath ;  that  I  had  much  better  be  with  the  devil 
than  with  him,  and  that  he  makes  me  witness  so  many 
horrors,  that  I  could  wish  him  already  I  do  not  know 
where  !  If  a  great  lord  is  a  wicked  man,  it  is  a  terrible 
thing.  I  must  be  faithful  to  him  in  spite  of  myself;  fear 
moves  me  instead  of  zeal,  curbs  my  sentiments,  and  often 
compels  me  to  applaud  what  I  detest  from  my  very  soul. 
See,  there  he  comes  to  take  a  walk  in  this  palace ;  let  us 
separate.     One  word  more ;  I  have  trusted  you,  and  not 

*  MoliSre  has  not  given  a  list  of  the  names  of  the  different  wives  of  Don 
Juan,  to  be  found  in  the  Italian  piece  which  he  has  freely  followed,  and 
also  in  several  other  plays  of  that  time.  Perhaps  he  thought  the  idea  too 
hackneyed.  In  Mozart's  opera,  Don  Giovanni,  the  list  of  the  mille  e  tre 
conquests  of  the  hero,  as  sung  by  Leporello,  beginning  Madamina  il  cato- 
logo  e  questo,  Delle  belle  cK  amo  il  padron  tnio,  produces  a  great  and  ad- 
mirable effect. 

VOL.   II.  F 


82  DON  JUAN;   OR,  [act  i, 

concealed  anything  from  you ;  it  came  a  little  too  quick- 
ly out  of  my  mouth  ;  but,  if  ever  anything  should  reach 
his  ears,  I  shall  declare  flatly  that  you  have  told  a  lie. 

Scene  II. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Ju.  What  man  was  just  now  talking  to  you .  He 
has  very  much  the  air,  it  seems  to  me,  of  honest  Guzman, 
a  servant  of  Donna  Elvira. 

Scan.  It  is  something  very  like  it. 

D.  Ju.  What !  it  is  he? 

Sgan.  The  very  man. 

D.  Ju.  And  how  long  has  he  been  in  town? 

Sgan.  Since  last  night. 

D.  Ju.  And  why  has  he  come  ? 

Sgan.  I  believe  you  may  imagine  well  enough  what  dis- 
turbs him. 

D.  Ju.  Our  departure,  no  doubt  ? 

Sgan.  The  good  man  is  quite  offended,  and  asked  me 
the  cause  of  it. 

D.  Ju.  And  what  answer  did  you  give  him  ? 

Sgan.  That  you  had  not  told  me  anything  about  it. 

D.  Ju.  But,  prithee,  what  do  you  think  of  it?  What 
do  you  imagine  about  this  aftair  ? 

Sgan.  I?  I  believe,  without  wronging  you,  that  you 
have  some  new  love  affair  in  your  head. 

D.  Ju.  Do  you  think  so  ? 

Sgan.  Yes. 

D.  Ju.  Upon  my  word,  you  are  not  mistaken ;  and  I 
must  confess  another  object  has  driven  Elvira  from  my 
thoughts. 

Sgan.  Oh !  good  Heavens  !  I  know  my  Don  Juan  at 
my  fingers'  ends,  and  that  your  heart  is  the  most  restless 
in  the  world ;  it  delights  to  rove  from  one  set  of  chains  to 
another  and  never  likes  to  stay  in  one  spot. 

D.  Ju.  And  tell  me,  do  you  not  think  I  am  right  in 
acting  in  such  a  manner  ? 

Sgan.  Oh  !     sir  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  What !     Speak. 

Sgan.  Certainly,  you  are  right,  if  you  have  a  mind  to 
it ;  no  one  can  say  anything  against  it.  But,  if  you  had 
not  a  mind  to  it,  it  might  perhaps  be  another  affair 


SCKNBII.]  THE   FEAST  WITH  THE   STATUE.  83 

D.  Ju.  Well,  then,  I  give  you  leave  to  speak,  and  to 
tell  me  your  sentiments. 

Scan.  In  that  case,  sir,  I  must  frankly  tell  you  that  I 
do  not  approve  of  your  goings  on,  and  that  I  think  it  very 
wicked  to  make  love  to  every  one,  as  you  do. 

D.  Ju.  What !  Would  you  have  a  man  bind  himself  to 
remain  with  the  first  object  which  has  caught  him,  re- 
nounce the  world  for  her  salie,  and  have  no  more  eyes  for 
anybody?  A  nice  thing  to  pique  one's  self  upon  the 
false  honour  of  being  faithful,  to  bury  one's  self  for  ever 
in  one  passion,  and  to  be  dead  from  our  very  youth  to  all 
other  beauties  that  may  strike  us  !  No,  no,  constancy  is 
fit  only  for  fools  ;  every  handsome  woman  has  a  right  to 
charm  us,  and  the  advantage  of  being  first  met  with  ought 
not  to  rob  others  of  the  just  pretensions  which  they  all 
have  upon  our  hearts.  As  for  me  beauty  delights  me 
wherever  I  meet  with  it,  and  I  easily  give  myself  up  to 
that  sweet  violence  with  which  it  hurries  us  along.  It 
does  not  matter  if  lam  engaged;  the  love  I  feel  for  one 
fair  does  not  induce  me  to  do  injustice  to  others ;  I  have 
eyes  to  see  the  merit  of  all,  and  pay  to  every  one  the 
homage  and  tribute  which  nature  demands  from  us. 
However  it  be,  I  cannot  refuse  my  heart  to  any  lovely 
creature  I  behold ;  and  as  soon  as  a  handsome  face  asks  it  of 
me,  if  I  had  ten  thousand  hearts,  I  would  give  them  all. 
Budding  inclinations,  after  all  have  a  charm  which  is  in-, 
describable,  and  all  the  pleasure  of  love  is  in  variety. 
One  takes  great  delight  in  reducing,  by  a  hundred  con- 
trivances, the  heart  of  a  young  beauty ;  in  seeing  every 
day  the  gradual  progress  one  has  made;  in  combating 
with  transports,  tears,  and  sighs,  the  innocent  bashfulness 
of  a  mind  which  can  hardly  prevail  upon  itself  to  surren- 
der ;  in  demolishing,  inch  by  inch,  all  the  little  resistance 
she  can  oppose  to  us ;  in  conquering  the  scruples  upon 
which  she  prides  herself,  and  in  leading  her  gently  whither 
we  have  a  mind  to  bring  her.  But  when  we  are  once  her 
master,  there  is  nothing  more  to  say,  nothing  more  to 
wish  for ;  all  the  charms  of  the  passion  are  over,  and  we 
are  lulled  asleep  in  the  tranquillity  of  such  a  love,  if  some 
new  object  does  not  awaken  our  desires  and  present  to  our 
heart  the  attractive  charms  of  a  conquest  still  to  make. 


84  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  [ACT  I. 

In  short,  there  is  nothing  so  pleasant  as  to  triumph  over 
the  resistance  of  a  fair  maiden  ;  I  possess,  in  such  a  case, 
the  ambition  of  a  conqueror,  who  flies  perpetually  from 
one  victory  to  another,  and  can  never  resolve  •  to  set 
bounds  to  his  wishes.  Nothing  can  restrain  the  impetu- 
osity of  my  desires ;  I  feel  I  have  a  heart  that  could  love 
all  the  world,  and  like  Alexander,  I  could  wish  for  other 
worlds,  wherein  to  extend  my  amorous  conquests.* 

Scan.  Ods'  boddikins,  how  you  talk  !  It  seems  that 
you  have  learned  this  by  heart ;  you  speak  like  a  book. 

D.  Ju.  What  have  you  to  say  to  this  ? 

Scan.  Upon  my  word,  I  have  to  say  ...  I  do  not 
know  what  to  say  ;  for  you  turn  things  in  such  a  manner 
that  it  seems  you  are  right,  and  yet  it  is  certain  you  are 
not.  I  had  the  finest  thoughts  in  the  world,  but  your 
speech  has  put  them  all  out  of  my  head.  Let  me  alone  ; 
another  time  I  shall  write  down  all  my  arguments,  to  dis- 
pute with  you. 

D.  Ju.  Do  so. 

Scan.  But,  sir,  would  it  be  included  in  the  permission 
you  have  given  me,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  I  am  some- 
what scandalized  at  the  life  which  you  lead. 

D.  Ju.  How  ?    What  life  do  I  lead  ? 

Scan.  A  very  good  one.  But,  for  example,  to  see  you 
marry  every  month,  as  you  do  ! 

D.  Ju.  Can  there  be  anything  more  agreeable  ? 

Scan.  True,  I  should  think  it  very  agreeable  and  very 
amusing,  and  I  should  myself  like  it  well  enough  if  there 
were  no  harm  in  it ;  but,  sir,  to  make  thus  a  jest  of  a 
sacred  mystery,  and  .  .   . 

D.  Ju.  Well,  be  it  so ;  it  is  an  aflFair  between  Heaven 
and  me,  and  I  can  very  well  settle  it  without  your  troub- 
ling yourself  about  it. 

Scan.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I  have  always  heard  it  said 
that  to  jest  about  Heaven  is  wicked  jesting,  and  that 
libertines  always  come  to  a  bad  end. 

•  Ivovelace,  in  Richardson's  Clarissa  Harlowe,  expresses  nearly  the 
same  sentiments,  and  writes,  "  the  Debellare  superbos  should  be  my  mot- 
to ;  I  always  considered  opposition  and  resistance  as  a  challenge  to  do 
my  worst." 


SCBN3II.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE   STATUE.  8$ 

D.  Ju.  Hiillo,  Master  Fool !  You  know  I  told  you  that 
I  do  not  like  persons  who  remonstrate. 

Scan.  Therefore  I  do  not  speak  to  you  !  Heaven  for- 
bid !  You  know  what  you  do;  and,  if  you  are  a  libertine" 
you  hJive  your  reasons  :  but  there  are  certain  punny  cox- 
combs in  this  world  who  are  so  without  knowing  why  or 
wherefore,  who  pretend  to  be  free-thinkers,  because  they 
think  it  becomes  them.  Had  I  a  master  of  that  kind,  I 
would  tell  him  plainly  to  his  face  :  "  Dare  you  thus  jest 
with  Heaven,  and  do  you  not  tremble  to  laugh,  as  you  do,  ^ 
at  things  the  most  sacred?  Does  it  become  you,  you  little 
earthworm,  you  mannikin  that  you  are  (I  speak  to  the 
master  I  mentioned),  does  it  become  you  to  wish  to  turn 
into  ridicule  what  all  men  revere  ?  Do  you  think  that 
because  you  are  a  man  of  rank,  because  you  wear  a  fair 
and  well-curled  wig,  have  some  feathers  in  your  hat,  a 
gold-laced  coat,  and  flame-coloured  ribbons®  (I  do  not 
speak  to  you  but  to  the  other) — do  you  think,  I  say,  that 
you  are  a  cleverer  man  for  all  this,  that  you  may  be 
allowed  to  do  everything,  and  that  no  one  should  dare  to 
tell  you  the  truth  ?  Learn  from  me,  who  am  your  servant, 
that  Heaven,  sooner  or  later,  punishes  the  impious ;  that 
a  wicked  life  leads  to  a  wicked  death ;  that  libertines  never 
come  to  a  good  end,  and  that  ..." 

D.  Ju.  Silence ! 

Scan.  Why,  what  is  the  matter? 

D.  Ju.  The  matter  is,  that  I  inform  you  that  a  certain 
beauty  has  got  possession  of  my  heart,  and  that,  captivated 
by  her  charms,  I  followed  her  to  this  city. 

Scan.  And  you  have  no  fear,  sir,  of  the  consequences 
of  the  death  of  that  Commander  whom  you  killed  six 
months  ago  ? 

■f  The  French  word  libertin  had  formerly  not  only  the  signification  which 
it  has  in  our  days,  but  meant  also  a  free-thinker ;  and  was  often  said  of  a 
man  or  woman  who  did  not  like  to  submit  to  the  ordinary  rules  and  regu' 
lations  of  society.  Libertine  was  also  formerly  applied,  in  English,  "to 
certain  heretical  sects,  and  intended  to  mark  the  licentious  liberty  of  their 
creed  and  forms,"  says  Trench,  in  his  Select  Glossary,  "  a  striking  evidence 
of  the  extreme  hkelihood  that  he  who  has  no  restraints  on  his  belief  will 
ere  long  have  none  upon  his  life." 

8  Sganarelle  describes  the  apparel  Don  Juan  wears,  without  daring  to 
name  him. 


86  DON  JUAN  ;   OR,  [act  i, 

D.  Ju.  Why  should  I  be  afraid  ?  Did  I  not  Icill  him 
honourably  ? 

Scan.  Very  honourably ;  it  could  not  have  been  done 
more  so,  and  he  would  be  wrong  to  complain. 

D.  Ju.  I  had  my  pardon  for  this  affair. 

Sgan.  Yes ;  but  this  pardon  does  not  perhaps  stifle  the 
resentment  of  relatives  and  friends,  and  .  .  . 

D.  Ju.  Pooh  !  Let  us  not  think  of  any  harm  that  may 
'  happen  to  us,  but  only  of  what  can  give  us  pleasure.  The 
person  of  whom  I  speak  to  you  is  a  young  bride,  one  of  the 
prettiest  in  the  world,  who  was  brought  hither  by  the  very 
man  she  is  to  marry.  Chance  threw  this  pair  of  lovers  in 
my  way,  three  or  four  days  before  they  set  out  on  their 
journey.  Never  did  I  see  two  people  so  satisfied  with  each 
other ;  and  displaying  so  much  love.  The  visible  tender- 
ness of  their  mutual  flame  moved  me  ;  I  felt  it  deeply,  and 
my  love  began  by  jealousy.  Yes,  I  could  not  at  first  sight 
endure  to  see  them  so  happy  together.  Resentment  kindled 
my  desire,  and  I  thought  it  would  cause  me  very  great 
pleasure  to  disturb  their  intimacy,  and  to  sever  that  union 
by  which  the  delicate  feelings  of  my  heart  were  offended ; 
but  hitherto  all  my  efforts  have  been  in  vain,  and  I  have 
recourse  to  the  final  stratagem.  This  intended  spouse  is 
to-day  to  treat  the  object  of  his  love  with  a  sail.  Without 
having  said  anything  to  you,  all  things  are  prepared  for 
gratifying  my  passion.  I  have  freighted  a  little  vessel,  and 
engaged  men  with  whose  assistance  I  can  easily  carry  off 
the  fair. 

Sgan.  Ah !  sir  .  .  . 

D.  Ju.  What  ? 

Sgan.  You  have  done  quite  right,  and  you  take  things 
in  the  proper  way.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  like 
satisfying  all  one's  desires. 

D.  Ju.  Get  ready  to  come  along  with  me,  and  take  care, 
you  yourself,  to  bring  all  my  arms,  so  that  .  .  .  {^He  sees 
Donna  Elvira).  Oh !  most  unlucky  meeting.  Traitor, 
you  did  not  tell  me  she  was  here  herself. 

Scan.  Sir,  you  did  not  so  much  as  ask  me. 

D.  Ju.  Is  she  mad  not  to  have  changed  her  dress,  and 
to  come  here  in  her  riding-habit  ?' 

'  This  remark  of  Don  Juan  on  beholding  a  woman  whom  be  has  aban< 


SCENK  in.]  THE   FEAST  WITH  THE  STATUE.  87 

Scene  III. — Donna  Elvira,  Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  El.  Will  you  do  me  the  favour,  Don  Juan,  to  notice 
me  ?  And  may  I  at  least  hope  that  you  will  deign  to  turn 
your  eyes  this  way  ? 

D.  Ju.  I  confess  to  you,  madam,  that  I  am  surprised, 
and  that  I  did  not  expect  you  here. 

D.  El.  Yes,  I  see  plainly  that  you  did  not  expect  me 
here;  and  you  are  indeed  surprised,  but  quite  otherwise 
than  I  hoped  for ;  the  manner  in  which  you  appear  con- 
vinces me  fully  of  what  I  refused  to  believe.  I  am  aston- 
ished at  my  simplicity,  and  at  the  weakness  of  my  heart 
in  doubting  a  treachery  so  strongly  confirmed  by  appear- 
ances. I  was  simple-minded  enough,  I  confess  it,  or 
rather  foolish  enough,  to  be  willing  to  deceive  myself,  and 
to  take  pains  to  contradict  my  eyes  and  my  judgment.  I 
sought  for  reasons  to  excuse  to  my  affection  that  diminu- 
tion of  friendship  which  it  discovered  in  you  ;  and  I  pur- 
posely invented  a  hundred  legitimate  excuses  for  so  hurried 
a  departure,  to  clear  you  from  the  crime  of  which  my  rea- 
son accused  you.  All  that  my  just  suspicions  could  daily 
say  to  me  was  in  vain  ;  I  would  not  listen  to  their  voice, 
which  represented  you  to  me  as  a  criminal ;  I  took  a  plea- 
sure in  giving  ear  to  a  thousand  ridiculous  fancies,  which 
depicted  you  to  my  heart  as  innocent ;  but,  at  last,  your 
reception  permits  me  no  longer  to  doubt,  and  the  glance 
with  which  you  received  me  informs  me  of  many  more 
things  than  I  would  wish  to  know.  I  shall  be  glad,  never- 
theless, to  hear  from  your  own  mouth  the  reasons  for  your 
departure.  Pray,  speak,  Don  Juan,  let  us  hear  in  what 
way  you  can  justify  yourself. 

D.  Ju.  Madam,  there  is  Sganarelle,  who  knows  why  I 
went  away. 

Sgan.  ( Whispering  to  Don  Juan).  I,  sir !  By  your 
leave,  I  know  nothing  of  the  matter. 

doned,  shows  that  he  has  neither  feelings  nor  heart.  Louis  XIV..  then 
(1665)  in  the  height  of  his  passion  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  ValH^re,  be- 
haved afterwards  to  her  as  badly  as  Don  Juan  does  to  Donna  Elvira.  It 
has  many  a  time  been  stated  that  the  King  was  neither  coarser  nor  more 
unfeeling  than  his  contemporaries.  We  have  only  to  look  at  the  Memoires 
du  Due  de  Saint  Simon,  to  see  what  at  least  one  of  them  thought  of  le 
Grand  Monarque.  But  Louis  XIV.  was  no  sceptic,  and  during  the  latter 
part  of  bis  reign  he  became  even  a  fanatic  and  a  persecutor. 


88  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  [act  i.' 

D.  El.  Well,  Sganarelle,  speak.  It  does  not  matter 
from  whose  mouth  I  hear  his  reasons. 

D.  Ju.  {^Making  signs  to  Sganarelle  to  draw  near  hi7n). 
Come,  speak  then  to  the  lady. 

Scan.  (  Whispering  to  Don  Juan^  What  would  you  have 
me  say? 

D.  El.  Come  hither,  since  he  will  have  it  so,  and  tell 
me  the  causes  of  so  sudden  a  departure. 

D.  Ju.  Why  do  you  not  answer  ? 

Scan.  (  Wliispering  to  Don  Juan).  I  have  nothing  to 
answer.     You  make  fun  of  your  very  humble  servant. 

D.  Ju.  Will  you  answer,  I  say  ? 

Sgan.  Madam  .    .    . 

D.  El.  What  ? 

Sgan.  ( Turning  towards  his  master).  Sir  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  (  Threatening  him).  If  .    .    . 

Sgan.  Madam,  the  conqueror,  Alexander,  and  the  other 
worlds,  are  the  cause  of  our  departure.  That  sir,  is  all  I 
can  say. 

D.  El.  Will  you  be  pleased,  Don  Juan,  to  explain  to 
me  these  beautiful  mysteries  ? 

D.  Ju.   Madam,  to  say  the  truth  .    .    . 

D.  El.  Fy !  how  badly  you  defend  yourself  for  a 
courtier,  who  should  be  accustomed  to  these  sort  of  things ! 
I  pity  you  to  see  you  so  confused.  Why  do  you  not  arm 
your  brow  with  a  noble  impudence  ?  Why  do  you  not 
swear  that  you  entertain  still  the  same*  feelings  for  me ; 
that  you  always  love  me  with  an  unparalleled  affection,  and 
that  nothing  but  death  can  sever  you  from  me  ?  Why  do 
you  not  tell  me  that  affairs  of  the  greatest  consequence 
compelled  you  to  set  out  without  informing  me  of  it ;  that, 
much  against  your  will,  you  must  stay  here  for  some  time ; 
and  that  I  need  only  return  whence  I  came,  with  the 
assurance  that  you  will  follow  me  as  soon  as  possible ;  that 
it  is  certain  you  are  very  anxious  to  rejoin  me,  and  that, 
whilst  you  are  absent  from  me,  you  endure  the  pangs  of  a 
body  separated  from  the  soul  ?  That  is  the  way  to  defend 
yourself;  but  not  to  stand  thunderstruck  as  you  do. 

D.  Ju.  I  must  confess,  madam,  that  I  possess  not  a 
talent  for  dissimulation,  but  am  sincere  at  heart.  I  will 
not  tell  you  that  I  entertain  still  the  same  feelings  for  you, 


sCBNEiiiJ  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  89 

and  that  I  am  very  anxious  to  rejoin  you,  since  it  is  certain 
that  I  came  away  only  to  avoid  you ;  not  for  the  reasons 
you  imagine,  but  from  a  pure  motive  of  conscience,  and 
because  I  thought  I  could  not  live  with  you  any  longer 
without  sin.  I  felt  some  scruples,  madam ;  and  the  eyes 
of  my  mind  were  opened  to  what  I  was  doing.  I  reflected 
that,  in  order  to  marry  you,  I  took  you  from  the  precincts 
of  a  convent,  that  you  broke  vows  which  engaged  you 
elsewhere,  and  that  Heaven  is  very  jealous  of  such  things. 
I  was  seized  with  repentance,  and  dreaded  the  wrath  of 
Heaven.  I  thought  our  marriage  was  only  adultery  in 
disguise;  that  it  would  bring  down  upon  us  some  calamity, 
and  that,  in  short,  I  ought  to  endeavour  to  forget  you, 
and  to  give  you  an  opportunity  of  returning  to  your  former 
obligations.  Would  you  oppose  so  holy  a  design,  madam, 
and  would  you  have  me  expose  myself  to  the  vengeance 
of  Heaven  by  retaining  you ;  that  by  .    .    . 

D.  El.  Ah  !  wicked  wretch  !  now  I  know  you  tho- 
roughly ;  and  to  my  misfortune  I  know  you  when  it  is  too 
late,  and  when  such  a  knowledge  can  only  serve  to  make 
me  despair.  But  be  assured  that  your  crime  will  not 
remain  unpunished,  and  that  the  same  Heaven  which  you 
mock  will  revenge  your  perfidy. 

D.  Ju.  Sganarelle,  Heaven  ! 

Sgan.  Oh,  yes,  we  care  much  for  that. 

D.  Ju.  Madam  .    .    . 

D.  El.  It  is  enough.  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  anything 
more.  I  even  blame  myself  for  having  already  heard  too 
much.  It  is  meanness  to  have  our  shame  explained  too 
clearly,  and  in  such  cases,  a  noble  heart  should,  at  the 
very  first  word,  resolve  what  to  do.  Do  not  expect  me 
to  break  out  into  reproaches  and  opprobrious  language  ; 
no,  no,  my  wrath  does  not  spend  itself  in  vain  words  ;  it 
reserves  all  its  ardour  for  vengeance.  I  tell  you  once 
more.  Heaven  will  punish  you,  wretch,  for  the  wrong  you 
have  done  me ;  and  if  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from 
Heaven,  fear  at  least  the  anger  of  an  injured  woman. 

Scene  IV. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 
Scan.   (^Astde).  If  he  should  ever  feel  some  remorse. 


90  DON  JUAN;  OR,  [icrn. 

D.  Ju.  {After  some  pause).  Let  us  go  and  think  of  the 
execution  of  our  amorous  enterprise. 

Scan.  {Alone)  Oh  !  what  an  abominable  master  I  am 
forced  to  serve  ! 


ACT  II. 

{A  Landscape  near  the  sea  shore). 

Scene  I. — Charlotte,  Pierrot." 

Char.  By  Jingo,  Pierrot,  you  were  there  just  in  the 
nick  of  time. 

Pier.  'Sbobs,  they  were  within  an  ace  of  being 
drowned,  both  of  them. 

Char.  Was  it  the  great  storm  this  morning  that  upset 
them  in  the  sea? 

Pier.  Look  you,  Charlotte,  I  shall  tell  you  outright  how 
it  happened ;  for,  as  the  saying  is,  I  saw  them  first,  first  I 
saw  them.  I  was  on  the  sea-shore,  I  and  fat  Lucas,  and 
we  were  a-larking  together  with  clods  of  earth,  that  we 
threw  at  one  another's  heads,  for  you  very  well  know  that 
fat  Lucas  likes  to  be  a-larking,  and  so  do  I  sometimes  too. 
So  as  we  were  a-larking,  for  we  were  a-larking,  I  perceived 
a  distance  off  something  that  stirred  in  the  water,  and 
that  came  bobbing  towards  us.  I  looked  fixedly  at  it,  but 
all  of  a  sudden  I  saw  that  I  saw  nothing  more.  Ay,  Lucas, 
says  I,  I  think  that  there  are  men  a-swimming  down 
there.  Oh,  says  he,  you  have  been  at  the  burial  of  a  cat, 
your  eyes  are  dazed.  'Sdeath,  says  I,  my  eyes  are  not 
dazed  ;  they  are  men.  No,  no,  says  he  to  me,  you  are 
purblind.  Would  you  wager,  says  I,  that  I  am  not  pur- 
blind, says  I,  and  that  they  are  two  men,  says  I,  who  are 
swimming  straight  this  way,  says  I.     Znigs,  says  he,  I  lay 

1"  Charlotte  and  Pierrot  speak  in  a  provincial  dialect,  which  was  quite 
a  novelty  on  the  stage  in  the  time  of  Moli^re ;  we  shall  give  an  example 
of  this : — Charlotte  :  Notre  dinse  /  Piarrot,  tu  f  es  trouve  Id  bien  h 
point.  Pierrot.  Parquunne  I  il  ne  s'en  est  pas  fallu  /'  epoisseur  (Tune 
eplinque,  qu'il  ne  se  sayant  nayes  tons  deux.  CHARLOTTE.  Cest  done  le 
coui>  de  vent  d*  a  matin  qui  les  avait  ranvarses  dans  la  mar  f  &c.  As  it 
would  be  impossible  to  render  this  in  an  equivalent  dialect,  I  have  trans- 
lated it  in  plain  English. 


scBNBi.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE   STATUE.  9I 

a  wager  they  are  not.  Well,  come  on,  says  I,  I  will  lay  you 
tenpence  on  it  ?  Marry  will  I,  says  he,  and  to  show  thee, 
there  is  the  money  down  on  the  nail,  says  he.  I  was 
neither  a  fool  nor  a  gaby ;  I  boldly  threw  down  upon  the 
ground  four  silver  pennies  and  sixpenny  worth  of  ha'- 
pence, as  freely,  i'  faith,  as  if  I  had  drank  off  a  glass  of 
wine ;  for  I  am  very  venturesome,  and  go  on  any  way. 
Yet  I  knew  what  I  did  howsomdever.  I  am  not  -such  a 
fool  as  I  look.  We  had  but  just  laid  the  wager  when  I 
saw  the  two  men  very  plainly,  who  made  signs  to  us  to 
come  and  fetch  them,  and  I  take  up  the  stakes.  Come, 
Lucas,  says  I,  you  see  that  they  call  us ;  let  us  go  at  once 
and  help  them.  No,  says  he,  they  have  made  me  lose. 
Then,  to  cut  short  my  story,  I  went  on  so,  and  at  last 
preached  so  much  to  him,  that  we  got  into  a  boat,  and 
then  I  made  so  much  ado  that  I  got  them  out  of  the 
water,  and  then  I  carried  them  home  to  the  fire,  and  then 
they  pulled  off  all  their  clothes  and  stripped  to  dry  them- 
selves, and  then  two  more  of  the  same  gang  came,  who 
had  saved  themselves  quite  alone,  and  then  comes  Mathu- 
rine,  and  one  of  them  cast  sheep's  eyes  at  her.  And  that 
is  precisely,  Charlotte,  how  all  this  has  happened. 

Char.  Did  you  not  say,  Pierrot,  that  one  of  them  is  a 
great  deal  handsomer  than  the  rest  ? 

Pier.  Ay,  he  is  the  master ;  he  must  be  some  great, 
great  man  to  be  sure,  for  he  has  gold  upon  his  clothes  from 
top  to  bottom,  and  his  servants  are  gentlefolks  themselves ; 
but  for  all  his  being  a  great  man,  he  would  have  been 
drowned  if  I  had  not  been  there. 

Char.  Lawk  a-day  ! 

Pier.  Ay,  indeed,  if  it  had  not  been  for  us  he  would 
have  had  his  fill  of  water. 

Char.  Is  he  still  at  your  house  without  his  clothes  on, 
Pierrot  ? 

Pier.  No,  no,  they  all  put  on  their  clothes  again  before 
us.  Mercy  on  me,  I  never  saw  any  of  these  folks  dress 
themselves  before  ;  what  a  parcel  of  gimcracks  these  cour- 
tiers wear  !  I  should  lose  myself  in  them,  and  I  was  quite 
flabbergasted  to  see  them.  Why,  Charlotte,  they  have  hair 
which  does  not  stick  to  their  heads,  and,  after  all,  they  put 
it  on  like  a  big  cap  of  imspun  flax.    They  have  smocks 


92  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  {act  ii. 

with  sleeves  that  you  and  I  might  get  into;  instead  of 
breeches  they  have  an  apron  as  large  as  from  this  to  Easter, 
instead  of  doublets  they  have  little  tiny  waistcoats  that 
do  not  reach  to  their  middle,  and  instead  of  bands  a  great 
neck-handkerchief  all  open-worked  with  four  large  tufts  of 
linen  hanging  down  over  their  stomach.  They  have  bands 
about  their  wrists  too,  and  great  funnels  of  lace  about  their 
legs,  and  amongst  all  this  so  many  ribands,  that  it  is  a 
downright  shame.  Their  very  shoes  are  stuffed  with  them 
from  one  end  to  the  other,  and  they  are  made  in  such  a 
fashion  that  I  should  break  my  neck  in  them. 

Char.  I'  fakins,  Pierrot,  I  must  go  and  see  them. 

Pier,  Oh !  Hark  you,  Charlotte,  stay  a  little  first,  I 
have  something  else  to  say  to  you. 

Char.  Well,  tell  me,  what  is  it  ? 

Pier.  Do  you  not  see,  Charlotte,  that,  as  the  saying  is, 
I  must  unbosom  myself  to  you?  I  am  in  love  with  you, 
you  know  it  very  well,  I  am  for  us  being  married  together; 
but  's  boddikins,  I  am  not  pleased  with  you. 

Char.  How  ?  what's  the  matter  ? 

Pier.  The  matter  is,  to  tell  the  truth,  that  you  vex  my 
very  heart. 

Char.  How  so  ? 

Pier.  Because,  by  the  powers,  .you  do  not  love  me. 

Char.  Ho  !  ho !     Is  that  all  ? 

Pier.  Ay,  that  is  all,  and  enough  too. 
-  Char.  Law,  Pierrot,  you  always  say  the  same  thing  tome. 

Pier.  I  always  say  the  same  thing  to  you  because  it  is 
always  the  same  thing  ;  and  if  it  was  not  always  the  same 
thing  I  would  not  always  say  the  same  thing. 

Char.  But  what  do  you  want  ?    What  do  you  wish? 

Pier.  Drat  it,  I  would  wish  you  to  love  me. 

Char.  Why,  do  I  not  love  you  ? 

Pier.  No,  you  do  not  love  me,  and  yet  I  do  all  I  can  to 
make  you.  I  do  not  mean  to  reproach  you,  but  I  buy  rib- 
bons for  you  of  all  the  pedlars  that  come  about,  I  risk  my 
neck  to  go  and  fetch  jackdaws  out  of  their  nests  for  you, 
I  make  the  piper  play  for  you  when  your  birthday  comes ; 
and  all  this  is  no  more  than  if  I  ran  my  head  against  the 
wall.  Do  ye  hear  ?  it  is  neither  fair  nor  honest  not  to 
love  folk  that  love  us. 


scBNKi.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE   STATUE.  93 

Char.  But,  lawk-a-day,  I  love  you  too. 

Pier.  Ay,  very  much  indeed  ! 

Char.  What  would  you  have  me  do  then  ? 

Pier.  I  would  have  you  do  as  folk  do  when  they  love 
as  they  ought. 

Char.  Why,  do  I  not  love  you  as  I  ought  ? 

Pier.  No,  when  that  is  the  case,  anyone  can  see  it ;  peo- 
ple play  a  thousand  little  tricks  to  folk  when  they  love 
them  with  all  their  heart.  Look  at  stout  Thomasse,  how 
smitten  she  is  with  young  Robin  ;  she  is  always  about  him 
to  tease  him,  and  never  lets  him  alone.  She  is  always 
playing  him  some  trick  or  other,  or  hits  him  a  rap  when 
she  passes  by  him.  The  other  day,  as  he  was  sitting  upon 
a  small  stool,  she  comes  and  pulls  it  from  under  him,  and 
down  falls  he  at  full  length  upon  the  ground.  Zounds, 
that  is  the  way  folk  do  when  they  are  in  love  ;  but  you 
never  say  a  word  to  me,  you  always  stand  like  a  log  of 
wood ;  I  may  go  by  ye  twenty  times  and  you  never  stir  to 
give  me  the  smallest  thump,  or  to  say  the  least  thing  to 
me.  Upon  my  word,  it  is  not  fair,  after  all,  and  you  are 
too  cold  for  folk. 

Char.  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  My  temper  is 
such,  and  I  cannot  alter  myself. 

Pier.  Temper  or  no  temper,  when  a  body  loves  a  body 
one  always  gives  some  small  inkling  of  it. 

Char.  I  love  you  as  well  as  I  can,  and  if  you  are  not 
satisfied  with  that,  you  must  go  and  love  somebody  else. 

Pier.  Why  there  now !  I  have  got  what  I  bargained  for. 
Zooks,  if  you  loved  me  you  would  not  say  that. 

Char.  Why  do  you  come  and  worrit  me  so  ? 

Pier.  And  what  harm  do  I  do  you?  I  only  ask  a  little 
friendship  from  ye. 

Char.  Well,  let  me  alone  then  and  do  not  press  me  so, 
maybe  it  will  come  all  of  a  sudden,  without  thinking  of  it. 

Pier.  Shake  hands,  then,  Charlotte. 

Char.   {^Gives  him  her  hand).     Well,  there. 

Pier.  Promise  me  that  you  will  do  your  best  to  love  me 
more. 

Char.  I  will  do  all  that  I  can,  but  it  must  come  of 
itself.     Pierrot,  is  that  the  gentleman  ? 

Pier.  Yes,  that  is  he. 


94  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  [act  ii. 

Char.  Oh  1  lack-a-day,  how  nice  he  Is  !  what  a  pity  it 
would  have  been  if  be  had  been  drowned. 

Pier.  I  shall  come  again  presently ;  I  shall  go  to  take 
a  pint  to  refresh  myself  a  little  after  my  fatigue. 

Scene  II. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle,  Charlotte  in  the 
background. 

D.  Ju.  We  have  failed  in  our  plot,  Sganarelle,  and  this 
sudden  squall  has  overturned  our  sloop,  as  well  as  the  plan 
we  had  formed ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  country- 
wench  I  have  just  parted  with,  makes  amends  for  this  mis- 
fortune. I  have  found  such  charms  in  her  that  they  have 
effaced  from  my  mind  all  the  vexation  caused  by  the  ill 
success  of  our  enterprise.  This  heart  must  not  escape  me : 
I  have  already  disposed  it  in  such  a  manner  that  I  shall 
have  no  need  to  sigh  long  in  vain. 

Sgan.  I  confess,  sir,  you  astonish  me.  We  have  hardly 
escaped  from  the  jaws  of  death,  and  instead  of  thanking 
Heaven  for  the  mercy  it  has  granted  us,  you  labour  anew 
to  draw  down  its  wrath  by  your  usual  whims  and  your 
amours  .  .  .  {Seeing  Don  Juan  look  angry) .  Peace,  rascal 
that  you  are ;  you  do  not  know  what  you  are  talking  of, 
and  my  master  knows  what  he  does.     Come. 

D.  Ju.  {Perceiving  Charlotte^.  Ha !  whence  comes  this 
other  country-girl?  Did  you  ever  see  anything  prettier? 
Tell  me,  do  you  not  think  she  is  as  handsome  as  the  other? 

Sgan.  Certainly.     {Aside').    Another  fresh  morsel. 

D.  Ju.  {To  Charlotte).  Whence  this  pleasant  meeting, 
fair  one?  What?  are  there  in  these  rural  spots,  amongst 
these  trees  and  rocks,  persons  as  handsome  as  you  are  ? 

Char.  As  you  see,  sir. 

D.  Ju.   Do  you  belong  to  this  village  ? 

Char.  Yes,  sir. 

D.  Ju.  And  do  you  live  there  ? 

Char.  Yes,  sir. 

D.  Ju.  What  is  your  name  ? 

Char.    Charlotte,  at  your  service. 

D.  Ju.  Ah  !  what  a  beauty  !  what  piercing  eyes  ! 

Char.   Sir,  you  make  me  quite  ashamed. 

D.  Ju.  Oh  !  do  not  be  ashamed  to  hear  the  truth. 
What  do  you  say,  Sganarelle?     Can  anything  be  more 


SCBNB  II.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  95 

agreeable  ?  Turn  about  a  little,  please.  Oh  !  what  a  fine 
shape.  Hold  up  your  head  a  little,  pray.  Oh !  what  a 
pretty  face  is  this !  Open  your  eyes  wide.  Oh !  how 
lovely  they  are.  Pray  let  me  see  your  teeth.  Oh !  how 
love- inspiring  !  And  those  provoking  lips  !  For  my  part, 
I  am  delighted  ;  I  never  beheld  so  charming  a  person. 

Char.  Sir,  you  are  pleased  to  say  so ;  I  do  not  know 
whether  you  make  fun  of  me. 

D.  Ju.  I  make  fun  of  you  !  Heaven  forbid  !  I  love  you 
too  well  for  that ;  1  speak  to  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart. 

Char.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  it  is  so. 

D.  Ju.  Not  at  all ;  you  are  not  obliged  to  me  for  any- 
thing I  say ;  you  owe  it  to  your  beauty  alone. 

Char.  Sir,  all  these  words  are  too  fine  for  me ;  I  have 
not  wit  enough  to  answer  you. 

D.  Ju.  Sganarelle,  just  cast  a  glance  on  her  hands. 

Char.  Fie,  sir  !    they  are  as  black  as  anything. 

D.  Ju.  Oh !  what  are  you  saying  ?  They  are  the  fairest 
in  the  world ;  pray,  allow  me  to  kiss  them. 

Char.  You  do  me  too  much  honour,  sir,  and  if  I  had 
known  it  just  now,  I  would  not  have  failed  to  have  washed 
them  with  bran. 

D.  Ju.  Pray,  tell  me,  prqtty  Charlotte,  are  you  married  ? 

Char.  No,  sir,  but  I  am  to  be  very  soon,  to  Pierrot, 
our  neighbour  Simonetta's  son. 

D.  Ju.  What !  should  a  person  like  you  become  the 
wife  of  a  simple  clod-hopper  !  No,  no  !  that  would  be  a 
profanation  of  so  much  beauty ;  you  were  not  born  to  pass 
your  whole  life  in  a  village.  No  doubt  you  deserve  a 
better  fate  ;  Heaven,  which  very  well  knows  this,  has  led 
me  hither  on  purpose  to  prevent  this  match,  and  to  do 
justice  to  your  charms;  for,  in  short,  beauteous  Charlotte, 
I  love  you  with  all  my  heart ;  it  only  depends  upon  your- 
self whether  I  shall  carry  you  off  from  this  wretched  place, 
and  put  you  in  the  position  you  deserve.  This  passion  is 
doubtless  very  sudden ;  but  what  then ;  it  is  owing  to 
your  great  beauty  ;  I  love  you  as  much  in  one  quarter  of 
an  hour  as  I  would  another  in  six  months. 

Char.  Really,  I  do  not  know  what  to  do  when  you 
speak.    What  you  say  pleases  me,  and  I  should  very  much 


96  DON  JUAN  ;   OR,  [act  ii. 

like  to  believe  you ;  but  I  have  always  been  told  that  we 
must  never  believe  gentlemen,  and  that  you,  courtiers, 
are  cozeners  who  think  of  nothing  but  of  making  fools  of 
young  girls. 

D.  Ju.  I  am  not  one  of  these. 

Sgan.  Not  at  all !     Not  at  all ! 

Char.  Look  ye,  sir,  there  is  no  pleasure  in  being  im- 
posed upon.  I  am  but  a  poor  country -wench,  but  I  value 
honour  above  everything ;  I  would  sooner  die  than  lose 
my  honour. 

D.  Ju.  I  have  a  soul  so  wicked  as  to  impose  on  such  a 
person  as  you  !  I  should  be  so  base  as  to  dishonor  you  ! 
No,  no,  I  am  too  conscientious  for  that.  I  love  you,  Char- 
lotte, virtuously  and  honourably  ;  and  to  show  you  that  I 
speak  the  truth,  be  convinced  that  I  have  no  other  design 
than  to  marry  you.  Can  you  have  any  greater  proof? 
Here  I  am  ready,  whenever  you  please,  and  I  call  this 
fellow  to  be  a  witness  of  the  promise  which  I  make  you. 

Scan.  No,  no,  never  fear.  He  will  marry  you  as  much 
as  you  please. 

D.  Ju.  Ah  !  Charlotte,  I  plainly  perceive  you  do  not  yet 
know  me.  You  do  me  great  wrong  in  judging  of  me  by 
others ;  and  if  there  are  rogues  in  the  world,  people  who 
only  endeavour  to  make  fools  of  young  women,  you  ought 
not  to  consider  me  one  of  them,  and  never  doubt  the  sin- 
cerity of  my  love ;  besides,  your  beauty  is  a  guarantee  for 
everything.  When  a  woman  is  as  handsome  as  you  are 
she  ought  never  to  entertain  such  fears ;  believe  me,  you 
do  not  look  as  if  you  could  be  made  a  fool  of  As  for 
me,  I  protest  I  would  stab  myself  a  thousand  times  to 
the  heart  if  I  fostered  the  least  thought  of  betraying  you. 

Char.  Good  Heavens !  I  do  not  know  whether  you 
speak  the  truth  or  not ;  but  you  make  people  believe 
you. 

D.  Ju.  You  do  me  justice  most  certainly  by  believing 
me ;  I  repeat  anew  the  promise  which  I  have  made  you. 
Do  you  not  accent  it  ?  Will  you  not  consent  to  become 
my  wife  ? 

Char.  Yes,  provided  my  aunt  has  no  objection. 

D.  Ju.  Give  me  your  hand  then  upon  it,  Charlotte, 
since  you  do  not  object. 


SCENE  III.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE   STATUE.  97 

Char.  But  at  the  very  least,  sir,  pray,  do  not  deceive 
me  ;  it  would  be  a  sin,  and  you  see  how  honestly  I  act. 

D.  Ju.  What !  you  seem  to  doubt  still  my  sincerity  ! 
Would  you  have  me  swear  the  most  frightful  oaths  ?  May 
Heaven  .    .    . 

Char.  Bless  me,  do  not  swear,  I  believe  you. 

D.  Ju.  Give  me  one  little  kiss,  then,  as  a  pledge  of 
your  promise. 

Char.  Nay,  sir,  pray,  wait  till  we  are  married,  and  then 
I  shall  kiss  you  as  much  as  you  wish. 

D.  Ju.  Well,  pretty  Charlotte,  I  will  do  whatever  you 
please  ;  only  give  me  your  hand,  and  let  me,  by  a  thou- 
sand kisses,  express  the  rapture  I  am  in  .  .  . 

Scene  III. Don  Juan,   Sganarelle,   Pierrot, 

Charlotte. 

Pier.  (^Getting  between  them  and  pushing  away  Don 
Juan).  Gently,  sir,  if  you  please,  you  are  getting  too 
warm ;  you  may  get  a  pleurisy. 

D.  Ju.  {Pushing  away  Pierrot  roughly).  What  brings 
this  impertinent  fellow  here? 

Pier.  (Placing  himself  between  Don  Juan  and  Char- 
lotte). Hold  hard,  sir,  you  must  not  kiss  our  wives  that 
are  to  be. 

D.  Ju.  {Pushing  Pierrot  again  away).  Ha  !  what  a 
noise ! 

Pier.   'Sdeath  !     People  are  not  to  be  pushed  thus. 

Char.  {Takifig  Pierrot  by  the  arm).  Let  him  alonq, 
Pierrot. 

Pier.   What !  let  him  alone?     I  will  not,  not  I ! 

D.  Ju.  Hah  ! 

Pier.  Drat  it,  because  you  are  a  gentleman,  you  come 
here  to  caress  our  wives  under  our  very  noses  ?  Go  and 
kiss  your  own. 

D.  Ju.  What  ? 

Pier.  What  ?  {Don  Juan  gives  him  a  box  on  the  ear.) 
Darn  it,  do  not  strike  me;  {another).  Hang  it!  {another.) 
Zounds!  {another).  'Sblood  and  wounds!  it  is  not  fair, 
to  beat  people !  Is  this  my  reward  for  saving  you  from 
being  drowned? 

Char.  Do  not  be  angry,  Pierrot. 

VOL.  II.  G 


98  DON  JUAN;    OR,  tACrn. 

Pier.  I  will  be  angry;  and  you  are  a  hussy,  to  let  him 
cozen  you. 

Char.  Oh,  Pierrot !  it  is  not  as  you  think.  This  gen- 
tleman will  marry  me,  and  you  should  not  be  in  a  passion. 

Pier.  Ha  !     But  you  are  engaged  to  me. 

Char.  That  makes  no  matter,  Pierrot.  If  you  love 
me,  should  ye  not  be  glad  that  I  am  to  be  made  a 
madam  ? 

Pier.  No,  I  would  as  soon  see  you  hanged  as  see  you 
another's. 

Char.  Come,  come,  Pierrot,  do  not  fret  yourself.  If 
I  am  a  madam  I  shall  make  you  gain  something ;  you 
shall  serve  us  with  butter  and  cheese. 

Pier.  Zounds  !  I  shall  never  serve  you  with  anything, 
even  if  you  would  pay  me  twice  as  much.  Do  not  listen 
thus  to  what  he  says.  'Sfish,  had  I  known  this  just  now, 
I  should  not  have  taken  him  out  of  the  water  at  all,  but 
I  would  have  given  him  a  good  rap  upon  the  head  with 
my  oar. 

D.  Ju.  (Coming  up  to  Pierrot  to  strike  him).  What  is 
that  you  say  ? 

Pier.  (Getting  behind  Charlotte).  Drat  it!  I  fear  no 
man. 

D.  Ju.  (^Coming  towards  him).  Let  me  only  get  hold 
of  you. 

Pier.  (Gets  on  the  other  side  of  Charlotte).  I  do  not 
care,  not  I. 

D.  Ju.  (Running  after  hint).     We  shall  try  that. 

Pier.  (Getting  anew  behind  Charlotte).  I  have  seen 
many  a  man  as  good  as  you. 

D.  Ju.  What  ? 

Scan.  Oh,  sir,  let  the  poor  wretch  alone.  It  is  a  pity 
to  beat  him.  (Placing  himself  between  Don  Juan  and 
Pierrot,  and  addressing  the  latter).  Harkee,  my  poor  lad, 
move  off,  and  do  not  talk  to  him. 

Pier.  (Passing  before  Sganarelle,  and  looking  boldly  at 
Don  Juan).     I  will  talk  to  him. 

D.  Ju.  (Lifts  up  his  hand  and  intends  to  give  Pierrot  a 
box  on  the  ear).  Ha  !  I  shall  teach  you.  (Pierrot  ducks 
down  his  head,  so  that  Sganarelle  receives  it). 

Scan.  (Looking  at  Pierrot).  Plague  take  the  booby  1 


p 


-11. 


THE  FEAST  WITH  THE  STAtCE.  99 

'■^^anarelle).    That   is   a  reward    for  your 
iinds!  I  shall  go  and  tell  her  aunt  of  all  her 


■Lin. 


Scene  IV. — Don  Juan,  Charlotte,  Sganakelle, 

D.  Ju.  (Ti»  Charlotte).  At  last  I  am  going  to  be  the 
happiest  of  raen,  arid  I  would  not  change  my  happiness  for 
all  the  world  could  give  me.  What  pleasures .  shall  we 
have,  when  you  are  my  wife,  aod  what  ... 

Scene  V. — 1    .n  Ji  an,  Charlotte,  MATHimiNE, 

!-'♦'•  •T?BLLE. 

•><r).  So,  so. 

what  are   you  doing  there 
iting  her  too? 
lo  Mathurine).  No ;  on  the  contrary  she 
lied  to  be  my  wife,  and  I  told  her  I  was 

..i..K.  ,  v..   r  ,.,.    ^VT^at  is  that  Mathtiarine  wants 

with  you? 

D.  Ju,  {^:>iui  HI  K^mnioi.c).  She  is  jcalous  of  myspcoking 
to  you,  and  would  like  rac  to  marry  her  \  but  I  tell  her  it 
is  you  whom  I  wish  to  have. 

Math.  What !  Charlotte  ... 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Mathurine)..  All  yoii  can  say  to  her  will 
l)e  of  no'use  j  she  took  this  into  her  head. 

CfiAR.  What  then,  Mathurine  ...  • 

\j.  Ju.  (Aside  to  Charlotte),  It  is  in  vain  io  talk  to  her, 
you  will  not  get  this  whim  out  of  her  he*!. 

Math.  Would  you  ... 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Mathurine).  There  is.  no  possibility  t/i 

V  ing  her  listen  to  reason.  ' 

vR.  I  should  like  ... 
•"    'Aside  to  C'  •r'-'*^^-      ■  .^   ui>o>..;.a!.   .. 

•  to  MiU/awit.i).  Do  not  say  anythu   ' 


rtt^.  Let  her  alou<f,  s^i- 


lOO  DON  JUAN  ;   OR,  f  act  ti. 

Math.  No,  no,  I  must  speak  to  her. 

Char.  I  will  hear  some  of  her  reasons. 

Math.  What  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Mathtrine).  I  will  lay  you  a  wager  that 
she  tells  you  that  I  promised  to  marry  her. 

Char.  I  .   .    . 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Charlotte').  I  will  bet  you  anything  that 
she  Will  maintain  that  I  have  given  her  my  word  to  make 
her  my  wife. 

Math.  Hark  you,  Charlotte,  it  is  not  right  to  meddle 
with  other  folks'  bargains. 

Char.  It  is  not  polite  to  be  jealous  because  the  gentle- 
man speaks  to  me. 

Math.  The  gentleman  saw  me  first. 

Char.  If  he  saw  you  first,  he  saw  me  second,  and  has 
promised  to  marry  me. 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Mathurine).  Well,  did  I  not  tell 
you  so  ? 

Math.  {To  Charlotte).  Your  humble  servant,  it  was  me 
and  not  you  whom  he  promised  to  marry. 

D.  Ju.   {Aside  to  Charlotte).  Did  I  not  guess  right  ? 

Char.  You  may  tell  that  to  others,  if  you  please,  but 
not  to  me  ;  it  was  me  he  promised  to  marry,  I  tell  you. 

Math.  You  make  fun  of  folks ;  once  more  it  was  me  he 
promised  to  marry. 

Char.  There  he  is;  he  can  tell  you  whether  I  am 
right. 

Math.  There  he  is ;  he  can  give  me  the  lie  if  I  do  not 
speak  the  truth  ? 

Char.  Did  you  promise  to  marry  her  ? 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Charlotte).  You  are  joking. 

Math.  Is  it  true,  sir,  that  you  have  given  your  word 
to  be  her  husband  ? 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Mathurine).  Could  you  entertain  such 
a  thought  ? 

Char.  You  see  she  affirms  it. 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Charlotte).  Let  her  alone. 

MAtH.  You  are  witness  how  positive  she  is. 

D.  Ju.  {Aside  to  Mathurine).  Let  her  say  what  she  likes. 

Char.  No,  no,  we  must  know  the  truth. 

Math.  We  must  have  it  decided. 


SCENE  v.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE   STATUE.  lOI 

Char,  Yes,  Mathurine,  I  will  have  the  gentleman  show 
you  your  mistake." 

Math.  Yes,  Charlotte,  I  will  have  the  gentleman  make 
you  look  foolish." 

Char.  Decide  the  quarrel,  sir,  if  you  please. 

Math.  Satisfy  us,  sir. 

Char.  You  shall  see. 

Math.  And  you  shall  see  too. 

Char.  {To  I)onJuan).  Speak. 

Math.  {To  Don  Juan).  Speak.  » 

'  D.  Ju.  What  would  you  have  me  say?  You  both  main- 
tain that  I  have  promised  to  marry  you.  Does  not  each 
of  you  know  the  whole  business  without  any  necessity  for 
me  giving  any  more  explanations?  Why  should  you 
oblige  me  to  repeat  what  I  have  said?  Has  not  the  person 
to  whom  I  really  gave  the  promise  sufficient  reasons  within 
herself  to  laugh  at  what  the  other  says ;  and  ought  she  to 
trouble  herself,  provided  I  keep  my  promise?  All  the 
speeches  do  not  forward  affairs ;  we  must  act  and  not  talk, 
and  facts  prove  more  than  words.  Therefore,  that  is  the 
only  way  in  which  I  shall  satisfy  you,  and  when  I  marry, 
you  shall  see  which  of  you  two  has  my  heart.  {Aside  to 
Mathurine).  Let  her  believe  what  she  will.  {Aside  to 
Charlotte).  Let  her  flatter  herself  in  her  own  imagination. 
{Aside  to  Mathurine').  I  adore  you.  {Aside  to  Charlotte). 
I  am  entirely  yours.  {Aside  to  Mathurine).  All  faces  are 
ugly  in  comparison  with  yours.  {Aside  to  Charlotte). 
When  a  man  has  once  seen  you  he  cannot  bear  to  look  at 
others.  {Aloud  to  both).  I  have  some  trifling  message  to 
deliver ;  I  shall  be  back  again  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.^' 

^1  The  original  has  jfe  veux  que  monsieur  vous  montre  voire  bee  jaune  ; 
literally,  "  I  will  that  the  gentleman  should  show  you  your  yellow  beak.'' 
This  is  a  phrase  which  dates  from  the  days  when  falconry  was  a  favourite 
sport.  A  bird  with  a  yellow  beak  is  a  very  young  bird,  hence  young  scho- 
lars, greenhorns,  were  called  bejaunes,  and  thus  montrer  a  quelqu'un  son. 
bejaune  or  son  bee  jaune  came  to  mean,  "  to  show  one  he  was  duped"  or 
foolishly  taken  in.  ''Green,''  instead  oS.  jaune,  yellow,  appears  to  have 
the  same  signification  in  very  familiar  English  phraseology. 

^"^  In  the  original  we  find,  ye  veux  que  monsieur  vous  rende  unpen  ca- 
muse,  literally,  "  I  wish  the  gentleman  would  make  you  a  little  fiat-nosed,'" 
or  figuratively,  as  above.  Avoir  un  pied  de  nez,  literally  "  to  have  a  nose 
a  foot  long,"  has  the  same  meaning  when  used  as  a  familiar  form  of  speech. 

1*  On  reading  this  scene  it  seems  forced  and  unnatural,  but  on  the  stage, 
when  acted  well,  it  is  very  amusing. 


I02  DON  JUAN  ;   OR,  [act  n. 

Scene     I. — Charlotte,  Mathurine,  Sganarelle. 

Char.  {To  Mathurine).  I  am  the  one  he  loves,  however. 

Math.  {To  Charlotte).  He  will  marry  me. 

Scan.  (Stopping  Charlotte  and  Mathurine).  Ah  !  poor 
girls,  I  pity  your  innocence.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  run 
thus  to  your  destruction.  Believe  me  both,  do  not  be  im- 
posed upon  by  the  stories  he  tells  you,  but  stay  in  your 
village. 

Scene  VII. — Don  Juan,  Charlotte,  Mathurine,  Sga- 
narelle. 

D.  Ju.  {In  the  background,  aside).  I  would  fain  know 
why  Sganarelle  does  not  follow  me. 

Scan.  My  master  is  a  knave  ;  he  only  wishes  to  make 
fools  of  you ;  he  has  made  fools  of  a  good  many  others  ; 
he  marries  the  whole  sex,  and  .  .  .  {Seeing  Don  Juan).  It 
is  false,  and  whoever  tells  you  this  you  may  tell  him  he 
lies.  My  master  does  not  marry  the  whole  sex  ;  he  is  no 
knave ;  he  does  not  intend  to  deceive  you,  nor  has  he  ever 
made  a  fool  of  any  one.  Oh,  stay!  here  he  is;  ask  him  himself. 

D.  Ju.  {Looking  at  Sganarelle,  and  suspecting  him  of 
having  said  something).     Yes! 

Scan.  Sir,  as  the  world  is  full  of  backbiters,  I  was  be- 
forehand with  them  ;  and  I  was  telling  these  girls  that  if 
anybody  should  say  anything  wrong  of  you  they  ought  not 
to  believe  him,  and  be  sure  to  tell  him  that  he  lied. 

D.  Ju.  Sganarelle  ! 

Scan.  ( To  Charlotte  and  Mathurine).  Yes,  my  master 
is  an  honourable  man  ;  I  warrant  him  such. 

D.  Ju.  Hem ! 

Scan.  They  are  impertinent  rascals. 

Scene  VIII. — Don  Juan,  La  Ramee,  Charlotte,  Ma- 
thurine, Sganarelle. 

La  R.  {Aside  to  Don  Juan).  Sir,  I  come  to  tell  you 
that  it  is  not  quite  safe  for  you  to  be  here. 

D.  Ju.  How  so  ? 

La  R.  Twelve  men  on  horseback  are  in  search  of  you  ; 
they  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  I  do  not  know  how  they 
have  followed  you  ;  but  I  have  learned  these  tidings  from 
a  countryman  of  whom  they  inquired,  and   to  whom  they 


SCBNK  X.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  IO3 

described  you.     As  there  is  no  time  to  lose,  the  sooner 
you  leave  here  the  better. 

Scene  IX. — Don  Juan,  Charlotte,  Mathurine,  Sga- 

NARELLE. 

D.  Ju.  {To  Charlotte  and  Mathurine).  Urgent  business 
obliges  me  to  leave  this  place,  but  I  entreat  you  to  remem- 
ber the  promise  which  I  made  you  ;  depend  upon  it,  you 
shall  hear  from  me  before  to-morrow  evening. 

Scene  X. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Ju.  As  we  are  unequally  matched  we  must  make  use 
of  a  stratagem,  and  cleverly  escape  from  the  misfortune 
that  pursues  me.  Sganarelle  you  shall  put  on  my  clothes, 
and  I  .   .   . 

Sgan.  Sir,  you  are  joking.  To  expose  me  to  be  killed 
in  your  clothes,  and  .   .   . 

D.  Ju.  Make  haste,  I  do  you  too  much  honour.  Happy 
is  the  servant  who  has  the  glory  of  dying  for  his  master. 

Sgan.  Thank  you  for  such  an  honour.  {Alone).  As  it 
is  a  case  of  death,  grant  me  the  favour,  oh  Heaven !  not 
to  be  taken  for  another. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — {A  Forest). — Don  Juan,  dressed  as  a  country 
gentleman,  Sganarelle,  as  a  physician. 

Sgan.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  acknowledge  that  I  was 
right,  and  that  we  are  both  wonderfully  well  disguised. 
Your  first  plan  would  by  no  means  have  been  opportune ; 
this  conceals  us  much  better  than  what  you  would  have 
done. 

D.  Ju.  It  is  true,  you  look  very  well;  I  cannot  imagine 
where  you  have  unearthed  this  ridiculous  apparel. 

Sgan.  Yes  !  It  is  the  dress  of  an  old  physician  which 
was  left  in  pawn  in  the  place  where  I  got  it,  and  it  cost 
me  some  money  to  have  it.  But  do  you  know,  sir,  that 
this  dress  has  already  obtained  me  some  consideration ; 
that  the  people  I  meet  bow  to  me,  and  that  they  come  to 
consult  me  as  an  able  man  ? 


I04  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  [act  m. 

D.  Ju.  How? 

Scan.  Five  or  six  countrymen  and  countrywomen, 
seeing  me  pass,  came  to  ask  my  advice  upon  different 
diseases. 

D.  Ju.  You  answered  that  you  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter  ? 

Scan.  I?  Not  at  all.  I  wished  to  keep  up  the  honour 
of  my  dress;  I  speechified  about  the  disease,  and  gave 
each  of  them  a  "prescription. 

D.  Ju.  And  what  remedy  did  you  prescribe? 

Scan.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I  picked  them  up  where  I 
could.  I  prescribed  at  random;  it  would  be  a  funny  thing 
if  the  patients  should  get  cured,  and  come  to  thank  me. 

D.  Ju.  And  why  not?  Why  should  you  not  have  the 
same  privileges  as  all  other  physicians?  They  have  no 
more  to  do  with  the  recovery  of  their  patients  than  you 
have,  and  all  their  art  is  mere  pretence.  They  do  nothing 
but  get  honour  if  they  succeed;  and  you  may  take 
advantage,  as  they  do,  of  a  patient's  good  luck,  and  see 
attributed  to  your  remedies  what  is  owing  to  a  lucky 
chance  and  the  powers  of  nature." 

Scan.  What,  sir?  You  are  also  an  unbeliever  in 
medicine? 

D.  Ju.  It  is  one  of  the  greatest  errors  of  mankind." 

Scan.  What !  you  have  no  belief  in  senna,  cassia,  or 
antimonial  wine  ?^® 


'*  This  remark,  which  Moli^re  has  also  made  use  of  in  Love  is  the  best 
Doctor,  is  taken  from  Montaigne's  Essays.  "  If  good  fortune,  nature,  or 
some  other  strange  cause,  produce  something  good  and  healthy  within  us, 
it  is  the  privilege  of  medicine  to  see  it  attributed  to  it ;  all  the  fortunate 
successes  which  happen  to  a  patient  who  is  under  the  hands  of  physicians, 
are  ascribed  to  it." 

15  This  is  the  first  satirical  outburst  of  Moli^re  against  the  physicians ; 
but  as  it  was  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  man  who  believed  in  nothing,  and 
attacked  everything,  the  doctors  and  the  public  in  general  did  not  think 
they  were  the  expression  of  the  feelings  of  the  author.  His  next  play, 
Love  is  the  best  Doctor,  undeceived  them. 

1*  In  Moli^re's  time,  several  works,  pamphlets,  and  satires  had  been 
written  against,  or  in  favour  of  a  comparative  new  remedy,  a  preparation 
of  antimony,  called  emetic,  or  antimonial  wine.  But  in  1658,  Louis  XIV. 
fell  ill  at  Calais,  and  was  cured  by  it,  so  that  this  medicine  became  quite 
the  fashion.  In  1666,  about  one  year  after  the  first  performance  of  Don- 
yuan,  the  parliament  decided  that  antimony  could  be  used  by  the  physi- 
cians of  the  Faculty. 


SCENE  1.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  I05 

D.  Ju.  And  why  would  you  have  me  believe  in  them  ? 

Scan.  You  are  of  a  very  unbelieving  temper.  Yet  you 
know  how,  of  late,  great  noise  has  been  made  about  anti- 
monial  wine  ?  The  miracles  it  has  produced  have  con- 
verted the  most  incredulous  minds;  and  it  is  but  three 
weeks  ago  since  I  myself,  who  am  speaking  to  you,  saw  a 
marvellous  effect  of  it. 

D.  Ju.  What? 

Scan.  There  was  a  man  who,  for  six  days,  was  dying ; 
they  did  not  know  what  more  to  prescribe  for  him,  and  all 
the  remedies  produced  no  effect;  at  last  the  doctors  took 
it  into  their  heads  to  give  him  an  emetic. 

D.  Ju.  He  recovered,  did  he  not? 

Scan.  No,  he  died. 

D.  Ju.  The  effect  is  admirable. 

Scan.  I  should  say  so  !  He  could  not  die  for  six  whole 
days,  and  that  made  him  die  at  once.  Could  you  have 
anything  more  efficacious? 

D.  Ju.  You  are  right. 

Scan.  But  let  us  drop  physic,  in  which  you  do  not 
believe,  and  talk  of  other  things ;  for  this  dress  inspires 
me,  and  I  feel  in  the  humour  of  disputing  with  you.  You 
know  you  allow  me  to  dispute,  and  forbid  me  only  to 
remonstrate. 

D.  Ju.  Well  ? 

Scan.  I  would  fain  know  your  innermost  thoughts.  Is 
it  possible  that  you  do' not  believe  at  all  in  Heaven  ? 

D.  Ju.  Let  us  leave  that  alone. 

Scan.  That  means  no.     And  in  hell  ? 

D.  Ju.  Eh? 

Scan.  The  same  thing  over  again.  And  in  the  devil, 
if  you  please  ? 

D.  Ju.  Yes,  yes. 

Scan.  Very  little  also.  Do  you  not  believe  in  a  life 
after  this  ? 

D.  Ju.  Ha  !  ha !  ha  ! 

Scan.  I  shall  have  some  trouble  in  converting  this  man. 
Tell  me  what  do  you  think  of  the  moine  bourru  /"     Eh? 

ilf  The  moine  bourru,  literally,  "  the  gruff  monk,"  was  a  phantom  who, 
it  is  said,  ran  through  the  streets  at  night,  and  beat  the  belated  wayfarers. 
This  connecting  a  superstition  with  the  highest  belief  gave  great  offence 


lo6  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  [act  hi. 

D.  Ju.  A  plague  on  the  fool ! 

Sgan.  That  is  what  I  cannot  bear ;  for  nothing  can  be 
more  true  than  the  moine  bourru.  I  will  be  hanged  if  it 
is  not  true  !  People  must  believe  something  in  this  world. 
What  do  you  believe  ? 

D.  Ju.  What  do  I  believe? 

Sgan.  Yes. 

D.  Ju.  I  believe  that  two  and  two  are  four,  Sganarelle, 
and  that  twice  four  are  eight. 

Sgan.  A  fine  belief,  and  nice  articles  of  faith  !  As  far 
as  I  can  see,  your  religion  is  arithmetic.  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  strange  follies  run  in  the  heads  of  men,  and 
that  those  who  have  studied  are  often  not  the  wiser  for  it. 
As  for  me,  sir,  thank  Heaven  !  I  have  not  studied  as  you 
have,  and  no  one  can  boast  of  ever  having  taught  me 
anything ;  but  with  my  small  amount  of  sense,  and  my 
little  judgment,  I  can  see  things  more  clearly  than  all 
books,  and  I  can  very  well  understand  that  this  world 
which  we  behold  has  not  sprung  up  of  itself  in  one  night, 
like  a  mushroom.  I  should  like  to  ask  you  who  has  created 
these  trees,  these  rocks,  this  earth,  and  this  sky  above  us ; 
and  if  all  this  has  sprung  up  of  itself  There  you  are ;  I 
take  you  as  an  example ;  there  you  are :  •  did  you  make 
yourself  alone,  and  was  not  your  father  obliged  to  sleep 
with  your  mother  to  make  you?  Can  you  see  all  the 
inventions  of  which  the  human  machine  is  composed 
without  wondering  how  the  one  influences  the  other? 
these  nerves,  these  bones,  these  veins,  these  arteries, 
these  .  .  .  this  lung,  this  heart,  this  liver,  and  all  these 
other  ingredients  to  be  found  there,  and  which  .  .  .  Oh, 
Lord !  interrupt  me,  if  you  please.  I  cannot  argue  unless 
I  am  interrupted.  You  do  not  say  a  single  word  on  pur- 
pose, and  allow  me  to  go  on  out  of  spite. 

D.  Ju.  I  am  waiting  for  your  arguments  to  be  finished. 

Sgan.  My  arguments  are  that  there  exists  something 
admirable  in  man,  whatever  you  may  say,  which  all  the 
philosophers  cannot  explain.     Is  it  not  marvellous  that  I 

in  MoliSre's  time,  and  our  author  had  probably  to  suppress  this  passage 
after  the  first  representations  of  Don  yuan.  But  very  likely  he  only 
wished  to  show  that  people  like  Sganarelle  have  a  greater  belief  in  super- 
stitions than  in  the  highest  abstract  truths. 


SCENE  II.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE   STATUE.  lOJ 

am  here,  and  that  I  have  something  in  my  head  which 
thinks  a  hundred  different  things  in  one  moment,  and  does 
with  my  body  all  that  it  wishes  to  do?  I  wish  to  clasp  my 
hands,  to  lift  up  my  arm,  to  raise  my  eyes  towards  Heaven, 
to  bend  my  head,  to  move  my  feet,  to  go  to  the  right,  to 
the  left,  forwards,  backwards,  turn  .  ,  .  {He falls  down 
whilst  turning  round'). 

D.  Ju.  There  is  an  end  of  all  your  arguing. 

Scan.  Zounds  !  I  am  a  fool  to  amuse  myself  in  arguing 
with  you ;  believe  what  you  like  j  it  does  not  matter  a 
straw  to  me  whether  you  are  damned  ! 

D.  Ju.  I  believe  that  whilst  arguing  we  have  lost  our 
way.  Call  that  man  we  see  yonder,  and  let  us  ask  him  our 
road.^^ 

Scene  II. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle,  A  Poor  Man. 

Scan.  Hullo  !  ho !  I  say,  you  man  !  ho  !  my  good 
fellow  !  friend,  a  word  with  you,  pray.  Show  us  the  way 
to  the  town. 

Poor  M.  You  have  only  to  follow  that  path,  gentlemen, 
and  turn  to  the  right  when  you  come  to  the  end  of  the 
forest !  but  I  warn  you  to  be  upon  your  guard,  for  there 
have  been  robbers  about  for  some  time. 

D.  Ju.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  friend,  and  thank 
you  with  all  my  heart. 

Poor  M.  If  you  would  kindly  assist  me,  sir,  with  some 
trifle  ? 

D.  Ju.  Ha,  ha !  your  advice  is  interested,  I  see. 

Poor  M.  I  am  a  poor  man,  sir,  living  alone  in  this  for- 
est these  ten  years  ;  and  I  shall  pray  to  Heaven  to  grant 
you  all  kinds  of  prosperity. 

D.  Ju.  Pray  Heaven  to  give  you  a  coat,  and  do  not 
trouble  yourself  about  other  people's  business. 

18  Moli^re  intended  to  print  his  Don  yuan,  but  this  was  never  done. 
In  1682,  eight  years  after  his  death,  La  Grange  and  Vinot,  in  the  first  col- 
lected edition  of  Moli^re's  works,  printed  this  play ;  but  they  had  to  sup- 
press several  passages,  which  were  afterwards  found  in  a  copy,  that 
belonged  to  M.  de  la  Reynie,  then  lieutenant-general  of  police,  and  which 
was  discovered  only  in  1825.  Some  passages  are  found  only  in  the  edi- 
tions printed  at  Amsterdam  in  1683,  and  at  Brussels  in  1694.  None  of 
these  has  ever  before  been  translated  into  English.  The  suppressed  words 
being  page  105,  "  Don  yuan.  Let  us  leave  that  alone,"  until  nearly  the 
end  of  the  scene. 


Io8  DON  JUAN  ;   OR,  [act  hi. 

Scan.  My  good  man,  you  do  not  know  this  gentleman  ; 
he  only  believes  that  two  and  two  make  four,  and  that 
twice  four  are  eight. 

D.  Ju.  What  is  your  occupation  among  these  trees  ? 

Poor  M.  To  pray  to  Heaven  for  the  prosperity  of  all 
kind  people  who  give  me  something. 

D.  Ju.  You  are  pretty  well  off.  then? 

Poor  M.  Alas !  sir,  I  am  as  poor  as  poor  can  be. 

D.  Ju.  You  are  joking:  a  man  who  prays  to  Heaven 
every  day  must  be  very  well  off. 

Poor  M.  I  assure  you,  sir,  that  frequently  I  have  not 
even  a  piece  of  bread  to  eat. 

D.  Ju.  That  is  strange  ;  your  assiduity  is  ill  rewarded. 
Ha,  ha!  I  am  going  to  give  you  directly  a  piece  of  gold, 
provided  you  swear  a  round  oath. 

Poor  M.  Oh  !  sir,  would  you  wish  me  to  commit  such 
a  sin? 

D.  Ju.  Will  you  gain  a  piece  of  gold  ?  yes  or  no.  Here 
is  one  for  you,  if  you  swear.     There ;  now  swear. 

Poor  M.  Sir  .  .  . 

D.  Ju.  Unless  you  swear,  you  shall  not  get  it. 

Scan.  Well,  well ;  swear  ever  so  little ;  there  is  no 
harm  in  it. 

D.  Ju.  Take  it ;  here  it  is ;  take  it,  I  tell  you ;  but 
swear. 

Poor  M.  No,  sir,  I  would  rather  die  of  hunger. 

D.  Ju.  There,  there  ;  I  give  you  this  piece  of  gold  be- 
cause you  are  a  human  being.''  (Looking  into  the  forest'). 
But  what  do  I  see  ?  One  man  attacked  by  three  !  The 
match  is  too  unequal,  and  I  ought  not  to  allow  so  base  an 
action.  (He  draws  his  sword  and  hastens  to  the  spot 
where  the  attack  was  going  on). 


^8  The  original  has  four  P amour  de  I'humanite,  for  the  love  of 
humanity.  Humanite  often  meant  with  Moli^re  "  the  quality  of  being 
human,"  and  not  what  it  usually  means  now,  "  mankind  collectively." 
The  passages  suppressed  in  the  first  printed  and  uncastrated  edition  of 
this  play  are  on  page  108,  from  "  I  have  not  even  a  piece  of  bread  to 
eat,"  to,  "  I  would  rather  die  of  hunger."  The  rest  of  the  scene  is  found 
only  in  the  'Amsterdam  edition  of  1684.  This  whole  scene  caused  an 
immense  scandal  in  the  beginning,  and  Moli^re  was  accused  of  impiety 
(see  Introductory  Notice.) 


SCENE  IV.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE   STAUTE.  IO9 

Scene  III. — Sganarelle,  alone. 
My  master  is  truly  mad  to  run  unsought  into  danger. 
But,  upon  my  word  his  assistance  has  been  of  some  use ; 
the  two  have  put  the  three  to  flight. 

Scene  IV. — Don  Juan,  Don  Carlos,  Sganarelle,  in  the 
background. 

D.  Car.  {^Putting  up  his  sword).  The  flight  of  these 
robbers  shows  me  Vhat  I  owe  to  your  arm.  Allow  me, 
sir,  to  return  you  thanks  for  so  generous  an  action,  and 
let  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  I  have  done  nothing,  sir,  but  what  you  would 
have  done  in  my  place.  Such  adventures  touch  our 
honour;  the  action  of  these  rogues  was  so  cowardly,  that 
it  would  have  been  taking  part  with  them  not  to  have  op- 
posed them.     But  how  fell  you  into  their  hands? 

D.  Car.  By  chance  I  strayed  from  my  brother  and  all 
our  retinue;  and  whilst  I  was  endeavouring  to  rejoin 
them,  I  fell  in  with  these  robbers,  who  immediately  killed 
my  horse,  and  would  have  done  as  much  for  me,  had  it 
not  been  for  your  valour. 

D.  Ju.  Do  you  intend  to  go  towards  the  town? 

D.  Car.  Yes  but  I  do  not  intend  to  go  into  it;  my 
brother  and  I  are  obliged  to  roam  about  on  account  of 
one  of  those  sad  affairs  which  compel  noblemen  to  sacri- 
fice themselves  and  their  families  to  their  untarnished 
honour ;  it  is  ever  fatal,  even  if  we  do  succeed ;  if  we  do 
not  lose  our  life,  we  are  compelled  to  leave  the  kingdom. 
This  is  the  reason  why  I  think  it  unfortunate  to  be  a 
nobleman,  for  however  discreetly  and  honestly  he  may 
live  himself,  he  cannot  prevent  the  laws  of  honour  from 
connecting  him  with  the  disgraceful  conduct  of  other 
people,  nor  from  having  his  life,  repose,  and  property 
depend  upon  the  whims  of  the  first  audacious  fellow  who 
takes  it  into  his  head  to  do  him  one  of  those  injuries  for 
which  a  gentleman  must  lose  his  life. 

D.  Ju.  There  is,  however,  this  advantage,  that  those 
who  take  it  into  their  head  to  offend  us  out  of  mere  wan- 
tonness run  the  same  risks,  and  spend  their  time  just  as 
uncomfortably.  But  if  I  am  not  indiscreet,  may  I  ask 
what  this  sad  affair  is? 


no  DON  pan;   or,  [act  in. 

D.  Car.  It  has  gone  so  far  that  the  secret  can  no  longer 
be  kept.  When  the  insult  is  once  public,  our  honour 
does  not  oblige  us  to  conceal  our  shame,  but  openly  to 
blazon  forth  our  vengeance,  and  even  to  proclaim  that  we 
intend  to  avenge  ourselves.  Therefore,  sir,  I  have  no 
scruples  in  telling  you  that  the  offence  which  we  wish  to 
avenge  is  the  seduction  of  a  sister,  who  was  carried  off 
from  a  convent,  and  that  the  author  of  this  offence  is  Don 
Juan  Tenorio,  son  of  Don  Louis  Tenorio.  We  have  been 
in  search  for  him  for  some  days,  and  we  have  followed  him 
this  morning,  upon  the  information  of  a  servant,  who  told 
us  that  he  had  gone  out  on  horseback,  with  four  or  five 
others,  and  that  he  had  taken  this  route ;  but  all  our 
pains  have  been  useless,  and  we  cannot  discover  what  has 
become  of  him. 

D.  Ju.  Do  you  know  this  Don  Juan,  sir,  of  whom  you 
speak. 

D.  Car.  No,  sir,  I  do  not.  I  never  saw  him,  and  I 
have  only  heard  my  brother  describe  him  ;  but  his  reputa- 
tion is  none  of  the  best ;  he  is  a  man  whose  life  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Stop,  sir,  if  you  please.  He  is  rather  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  it  would  be  base  in  me  to  allow  any  one  to 
speak  ill  of  him. 

D.  Car.  Out  of  respect  for  you,  sir,  I  shall  say  nothing 
of  him.  As  you  have  saved  my  life,  certainly  the  least 
thing  I  can  do  is  not  to  speak  before  you  of  one  of  your 
acquaintances,  when  I  can  say  nothing  but  evil  of  him. 
But  however  much  his  friend  you  may  be,  I  venture  to  hope 
that  you  will  not  approve  of  this  action  of  his,  or  think 
it  strange  that  we  should  endeavour  to  avenge  ourselves. 
I  D.  Ju.  On  the  contrary,  I  will  serve  you  in  this,  and 
spare  you  some  fruitless  trouble.  I  am  Don  Juan's  friend, 
I  cannot  help  being  so ;  but  it  is  not  right  that  he  should 
offend  gentlemen  with  impunity,  and  I  promise  you  in 
his  name  that  he  shall  give  you  satisfaction. 

D.  Car.  And  what  satisfaction  can  he  give  for  these 
sorts  of  injuries  ? 

D.  Ju.  All  that  your  honour  can  desire ;  and,  without 
giving  you  any  further  trouble  to  look  for  Don  Juan,  I 
engage  that  he  shall  be  forthcoming  wherever  you  like, 
when  you  please. 


SCHNKV.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE   STATUE.  HI 

D.  Car.  This  is  very  pleasant  news,  sir,  to  outraged 
hearts ;  but  after  what  I  owe  you,  it  would  be  very  painful 
to  me,  if  you  were  to  be  one  of  the  combatants. 

D.  Ju.  I  am  so  intimately  connected  with  Don  Juan 
than  he  cannot  fight  unless  I  must  fight  too;  but  I  answer 
for  him  as  for  myself,  and  you  have  only  to  say  when  you 
wish  to  meet  him,  and  give  you  satisfaction. 

D.  Car.  How  cruel  is  my  lot !  Must  I  owe  my  life  to 
you,  and  Don  Juan  be  one  of  your  friends  ? 

Scene  V. — Don  Alonzo,  Don  Carlos,  Don  Juan, 
Sganarelle. 

D.  Al.  {Speaking  to  his  retinue,  without  seeing  Don 
Carlos  or  Don  Juan^.  Give  some  water  to  my  horses,  and 
then  lead  them  after  us ;  I  shall  walk  a  little.  {Seeing 
them  both).  Heavens  !  what  do  I  see  ?  What  !  brother, 
you  are  in  conversation  with  our  mortal  enemy  ? 

D.   Car.   Our  mortal  enemy  ? 

D.  Ju.  {Clapping  his  hand  to  his  sword).  Yes,  I  am 
myself,  Don  Juan  ;  and  your  superior  number  shall  not 
force  me  to  wish  to  disown  my  name. 

D.  Al.  {Drawing  his  sword).  Ah  !  traitor,  you  must 
die,  and  .  .  .  {Sganarelle  runs  away  and  hides  him- 
self). 

D.  Car.  Stay,  brother.  I  owe  my  life  to  him  ;  and 
had  he  not  come  to  my  assistance,  the  robbers  whom  I 
encountered  would  have  killed  me. 

D.  Al.  And  would  you  allow  this  consideration  to  pre- 
vent our  vengeance  ?  Whatever  service  the  hand  of  an 
enemy  may  render  us,  it  ought  to  have  no  influence  upon 
our  heart ;  if  we  are  to  measure  the  obligation  by  the 
injury,  then  your  gratitude,  brother,  is  in  this  case  ridicu- 
lous; for  honour  is  infinitely  more  precious  than  life,  and 
therefore  we  owe  nothing  when  we  owe  our  life  to  him 
who  has  taken  away  our  honour. 

D.  Car.  I  know  the  difference,  brother,  that  a  gentle- 
man ought  always  to  make  between  the  one  and  the  other; 
and  gratitude  for  the  obligation  does  not  efface  within  me 
resentment  for  the  injury ;  but  allow  me  to  give  back  to 
him  on  this  very  spot  what  he  has  lent  me  ;  let  me  repay 
him  immediately  the  life  I  owe  him,  by  delaying  our  ven- 


112  DON  JUAN;   OR,  [act  iii. 

geance,  and  by  allowing  him  the  liberty  of  enjoying,  for 
a  few  days,  the  benefit  of  this  kind  action  to  me. 

D.  Al.  No,  no,  we  run  the  risk  of  not  wreaking  our 
vengeance  if  we  delay  it,  and  the  opportunity  of  taking  it 
may  never  come  again.  Heaven  offers  it  to  us  now,  and 
we  ought  not  to  let  it  pass.  When  honour  is  mortally 
wounded,  we  should  not  think  of  keeping  any  modera- 
tion ;  if  you  do  not  like  to  engage  personally  in  this 
action,  you  need  only  retire,  and  leave  to  ray  arm  the 
glory  of  such  a  sacrifice. 

D.  Car.  Pray,  brother  .   .  . 

D.  Al.  All  further  conversation  is  unnecessary ;  he 
must  die. 

D.  Car.  Hold,  I  say,  brother.  I  will  not  allov  any 
attempt  upon  his  life  ;  and  I  swear  by  Heaven  that  I  shall 
defend  him  here  against  any  and  every  one;  that  very  life 
which  he  has  saved  shall  always  guard  him;  if  you  attempt 
to  kill  him,  you  must  first  pierce  me. 

D.  Al.  What !  you  side  with  our  enemy  against  me  ; 
and,  instead  of  feeling  the  same  rage  on  beholding  him  as  I 
do,  you  show  feelings  full  of  gentleness! 

D.  Car.  Brother,  let  us  show  moderation  in  a  lawful 
action;  and  not  avenge  our  honour  with  so  much  violence. 
Let  us  master  our  courage  ;  let  us  show  valour  without 
ferocity,  which  only  proceeds  from  mature  deliberation 
and  reason,  not  from  the  impulse  of  a  blind  rage.  I  will 
not  remain  in  debt,  brother,  to  my  enemy ;  I  am  under 
an  obligation  to  him,  which  I  must  repay  before  I  do  any- 
thing else.  Our  revenge  will  not  be  the  less  exemplary 
for  being  deferred  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  will  be  the  great- 
er;  and  the  opportunity  we  have  had  of  taking  it,  will 
make  it  appear  more  just  in  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world. 

D.  Al.  O,  the  strange  weakness  and  dreadful  blindness 
of  thus  hazarding  the  interests  of  our  honour  for  the  ridicu- 
lous idea  of  a  fanciful  obligation  ! 

D.  Car.  No,  brother,  do  not  trouble  yourself  about 
that.  If  I  commit  a  fault,  I  shall  make  amends  for  it,  and 
take  care  of  our  honour;  I  know  to  what  it  obliges  us,  and 
this  delay  of  one  day,  which  my  gratitude  asks  for  him, 
will  only  augment  my  desire  to  satisfy  it.  You  see,  Don 
Juan,  how  anxious  I  am  to  return  you  the  favour  I  have 


sCBiravi.]  THE  FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  1 13 

received  ;  by  this  you  can  judge  of  the  consequences ;  rest 
assured  that  I  discharge  with  the  same  warmth  what  I  owe, 
and  that  I  shall  not  be  the  less  punctual  in  repaying  you 
the  insult  than  the  kindness.  I  will  not  oblige  you  to  ex- 
press your  sentiments  now  ;  I  allow  you  to  think  at  your 
leisure  about  what  you  are  resolved  to  do.  You  very  well 
know  the  great  injury  you  have  done  us  ;  you  shall  your- 
self judge  what  reparation  it  demands.  There  are  peace- 
ful means  of  giving  us  satisfaction  ;  there  are  violent  and 
bloody  ones  ;  but  finally,  whatever  choice  you  may  make, 
you  have  passed  me  your  word  to  let  Don  Juan  give  me  satis- 
faction. Pray,  mind  to  do  so,  and  remember  that,  out  of 
this  place,  my  only  duty  is  for  my  honour. 

D.  Ju.  I  have  asked  nothing  of  you,  and  shall  keep  my 
promise. 

D.  Car.  Come,  brother,  a  moment's  forbearance  does 
not  injure  the  severity  of  our  duty. 

Scene  VI. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Ju.  Hullo  !  hey  !  Sganarelle  ! 

Scan.  (  Coming  out  of  a  place  where  he  had  hid  himself^. 
What  is  your  pleasure,  sir  ? 

D.  Ju.  How  !  scoundrel,  you  run  away  when  I  am 
attacked  ? 

Sgan.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  I  was  quite  near.  I  be- 
lieve that  this  gown  is  purgative,  and  that  to  wear  it  is  as 
good  as  taking  medicine. 

D.  Ju.  Plague  on  your  insolence  !  Hide  your  coward- 
ice at  least  behind  a  more  decent  covering.  Do  you  know 
who  the  gentleman  is  whose  life  I  saved? 

Sgan.  I?    No. 

D.  Ju.  It  is  a  brother  of  Elvira. 

Sgan.  A  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  He  is  gentlemanly  enough,  and  behaved  pretty 
well ;  I  am  sorry  I  have  a  quarrel  with  him. 

Sgan.  It  would  be  easy  for  you  to  arrange  all  things. 

D.  Ju.  Yes,  but  my  passion  for  Elvira  is  worn  out,  and 
it  does  not  suit  my  mood  to  engage  myself.  You  know  I 
love  liberty  in  love,  and  I  cannot  resolve  to  immure  my 
heart  between  four  walls.  I  have  told  you  a  score  of  times 
I  have  a  natural  propensity  to  give  way  to  whatever  at- 

VOL.   II.  H 


II*  DON  JUAN;  OR,  [ACTm. 

tracts  me.  My  heart  belongs  to  the  whole  fair  sex  ;  and 
they  must  take  it  by  turns,  and  keep  it  as  long  as  they 
can.  But  what  splendid  edifice  do  I  see  amongst  those 
trees  ? 

Scan.  Do  you  not  know  it  ? 

D.  Ju.  No,  indeed. 

Scan.  Why !  it  is  the  tomb  which  the  Commander 
ordered  to  be  built  when  you  killed  him. 

D.  Ju.  Ha  !  you  are  right.  I  did  not  know  that  it  was 
hereabout.  Every  one  says  it  is  wonderfully  well  done, 
and  the  statue  of  the  Commander  as  well  j  I  have  a  mind 
to  go  and  see  it. 

Scan.  Do  not  go  there,  sir. 

D.  Ju.  Why  not? 

Scan.  It  is  not  courteous  to  go  to  pay  a  visit  to  a  man 
whom  you  have  killed. 

D.  Ju.  On  the  contrary ;  I  intend  to  be  courteous  by 
paying  him  a  visit,  which  he  ought  to  receive  politely,  if 
he  is  anything  of  a  gentleman.  Come,  let  us  go  in.  {The 
tomb  opens,  and  discovers  a  splendid  mausoleum  and  the 
statue  of  the  Commander). 

Scan.  Ah  !  how  beautiful  that  is  !  what  fine  statues  ! 
what  beautiful  marble  !  what  fine  pillars !  ah  !  how  beauti- 
ful that  is  !     What  do  you  say  of  it,  sir  ? 

D.  Ju.  That  the  pride  of  a  dead  man  cannot  possibly 
go  farther.  What  I  think  admirable  is  that  a  man,  who, 
whilst  he  was  alive,  was  satisfied  with  quite  a  plain 
abode,  should  desire  so  magnificent  a  one,  when  he  has 
no  longer  occasion  for  it. 

Scan.  Here  is  the  statue  of  the  Commander. 

D.  J.  Zounds  !  he  looks  very  well  in  the  dress  of  a 
Roman  emperor  ! 

Scan.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  it  is  very  well  made.  It 
seems  as  if  he  were  alive,  and  going  to  speak.  He  looks  at 
us  in  such  a  manner  that  it  would  frighten  me  if  I  were 
quite  alone  ;  I  do  not  think  he  likes  to  see  us. 

D.  Ju.  He  would  be  wrong ;  and  it  would  be  an  un- 
handsome reception  of  the  honour  I  do  him.  Ask  him  if 
he  will  come  to  take  supper  with  me. 

Scan.  That  is  a  thing  he  has  no  occasion  for,  I  believe. 

D.  Ju.  Ask  him,  I  say. 


SCENE  i.l  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  II5 

Sgan.  You  are  jesting.  It  would  be  madness  to  go  and 
speak  to  a  statue. 

D.  Ju.  Do  what  I  bid  you. 

Sgan.  How  ridiculous  !  Mr.  Commander  .  .  .  {Aside). 
I  laugh  at  my  folly,  but  my  master  makes  me  do  it. 
{Aloud).  Mr.  Commander,  my  master,  Don  Juan,  asks 
whether  you  will  do  him  the  honour  to  come  to  take  sup- 
per with  him.     {The  statue  nods  its  head).     Ah ! 

D.  Ju.  What  is  the  matter?  What  ails  you?  Tell  me. 
Will  you  speak  ? 

Sgan.  {Nodding  his  head  like  the  statue).  The 
statue  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Well,  what  do  you  mean,  villain  ? 

Sgan.  I  say  that  the  statue  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Well !  what  of  the  statue?  Speak,  or  I  will  break 
every  bone  in  your  body. 

Sgan.  The  statue  made  a  sign  to  me. 

D.  Ju.  Plague  take  the  rascal ! 

Sgan.  I  tell  you  it  made  a  sign  to  me ;  there  is  nothing 
more  true.  Go  and  speak  to  him  yourself,  and  then  you 
will  see.     Perhaps  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Come  rogue,  come.  I  will  convict  you  clearly 
of  cowardice.  Observe.  Will  his  Excellency  the  Com- 
mander come  to  take  supper  with  me  ?  (  The  statue  nods 
his  head  again. ) 

Sgan.  I  would  not  take  ten  pistoles  to  see  it  again. 
Well,  sir? 

D.  Ju.  Come,  let  us  begone. 

Sgan.  {Alone).  These  are  your  free-thinkers  who  be- 
lieve in  nothing. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — {A  Room  in  Don  Juan^s  Palace).    Don  Juan, 
Sganarelle,  Ragotin. 

D.  Ju.  {To  Sganarelle).  Be  it  as  it  will;  let  us  drop  it. 
It  is  but  a  trifle,  and  we  may  have  been  deceived  by  a 
false  light,  or  surprised  by  some  giddiness  which  disturbed 
our  sight. 


Il6  DON  JUAN;  OR,  [activ. 

Sgan.  Ah !  sir,  do  not  try  to  deny  what  we  saw  with 
our  own  eyes.  Nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  that 
nod ;  1  make  no  doubt  that  Heaven  offended  by  your  way 
of  living  has  wrought  this  miracle  to  convince  you,  and 
to  reclaim  you  from  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Harkee.  If  you  bother  me  any  more  with  your 
foolish  morality ;  if  you  say  another  word  on  that  subject, 
I  shall  call  one  of  the  servants,  send  for  a  strong  switch, 
have  you  held  down  by  three  or  four  men,  and  give  you  a 
thousand  lashes.     Do  you  understand  me  ?  ^^ 

Sgan.  Very  well,  sir,  perfectly  well.  You  explain  your- 
self clearly;  that  is  one  good  thing  in  you  that  you  never 
affect  a  roundabout  way ;  you  express  yourself  with  won- 
derful plainness.^' 

D.  Ju.  Come,  let  me  have  supper  as  soon  as  possible. 
A  chair  here,  boy. 

Scene    II. — Don    Juan,  Sganarelle,    La  Violette, 
Ragotin. 

La  V.  Sir,  here  is  one  of  your  tradesmen,  M.  Dimanche, 
who  wishes  to  speak  to  you. 

Sgan.  That  is  all  right ;  we  only  wanted  to  be  bothered 
by  a  creditor !  What  put  it  into  his  head  to  come  to  ask 
us  for  money  ?  why  did  you  not  tell  him  that  your  master 
was  not  at  home  ? 

La  V.  I  have  been  telling  him  so  these  three-quarters  of 
an  hour,  but  he  would  not  believe  me,  and  sat  down  within 
to  wait. 

Sgan.   Let  him  wait  as  long  as  he  likes. 

D.  Ju.  No,  on  the  contrary  bid  him  come  in.  It  is 
very  bad  policy  to  hide  from  your  creditors.  It  is  good  to 
pay  them  something ;  and  I  possess  the  secret  of  sending 
them  away  satisfied  without  giving  them  a  farthing. 

Scene  III. — Don  Juan,  M.  Dimanche,  Sganarelle,  La 
Violette,  Ragotin. 
D.  Ju.  Ha  !  M.  Dimanche,  come  this  way.     How  de- 

^  This  is  the  first  time  that  Don  Juan  threatens  Sganarelle  in  a  positive 
and  serious  way, — a  proof  that  he  is  disturbed  by  what  he  has  seen. 
Hence  the  slightest  contradiction  kindles  his  fury. 

*^  This  is  an  imitation  of  the  Andria  of  Terence,  Act  i.,  Scene  2. 


SCENE  111.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  II7 

lighted  I  am  to  see  you  !  And  how  angry  I  am  that  my 
people  did  not  show  you  in  immediately  !  I  had  given 
orders  that  I  would  not  see  any  one  ;  but  this  order  was 
not  meant  for  you,  and  ycu  have  a  right  never  to  have 
the  door  shut  against  you  in  my  house. 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you. 

D.  Ju.  {To  La  Violette  and  Ragotiii).  Zounds!  ras- 
cals, I  shall  teach  you  to  leave  M.  Dimanche  in  the  ante- 
chamber, and  I  shall  let  you  know  who  is  who. 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  it  is  not  of  the  slightest  consequence. 

D.  Ju.  {To  M.  Dimanche).  What!  to  say  I  was  not 
within,  to  M.  Dimanche,  my  very  best  friend  ! 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  I  am  your  servant ;  I  came  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Here,  quick,  a  seat  for  M.  Dimanche. 

M.  Dim.   Sir,  I  am  very  well  as  I  am. 

D.  Ju.  No,  no ;  I  will  have  you  sit  down  by  me. 

M.  Dim.  It  is  not  necessary. 

D.  Ju.  Take  away  that  stool,  and  bring  an  arm  chair. 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  you  are  jesting,  and  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  No,  no;  I  know  what  I  owe  you;  and  I  will 
not  allow  them  to  make  any  difference  between  us  two. 

M.  Dim.  Sir.  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.   Come,  sit  down. 

M.  Dim.  There  is  no  need  for  it,  sir.  I  have  only  oue 
word  to  say  to  you.     I  was  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Sit  you  down  there,  I  say. 

M.  Dim.  No,  sir,  I  am  very  well.     I  come  to  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  No,  I  will  not  hear  you  if  you  do  not  sit  down. 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  I  do  as  you  wish. — I  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Upon  'my  word,  M.  Dimanche,  you  look  very 
well. 

M,  Dim.  Yes,  sir,  at  your  service.     I  came  to  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  You  have  an  admirable  constitution,  rosy  lips, 
a  ruddy  complexion,  and  sparkling  eyes. 

M.  Dim.  I  should  be  glad  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  How  is  Mrs.  Dimanche,  your  good  lady  ? 

M.  Dim.  Very  well,  sir,  thank  Heaven. 

D.  Ju.   She  is  a  good  woman 

M.  Dim.  She  is  your  humble  servant,  sir.     I  came  .    .   . 

D.  Ju.  And  how  is  your  little  daughter,  Claudine  ? 

M.  Dim.  As  well  as  possible. 


Il8  DON  JUAN;   OR,  [act  IV. 

D.  Ju.  What  a  pretty  little  girl  she  is  !  I  love  her  with 
all  my  heart. 

M.  Dim,  You  do  her  too  much  honour,  sir.     I  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  And  does  little  Colin  make  as  much  noise  as 
ever  with  his  drum  ? 

M.  Dim.   Always  the  same,  sir.     I  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  And  your  little  dog,  Brusquet,  does  he  still 
bark  as  loudly,  and  as  lustily  bite  the  legs  of  the  people 
"  who  visit  you  ? 

M.  Dim.  More  than  ever,  sir ;  and  we  cannot  break 
him  off  it. 

D.  Ju.  Do  not  be  surprised  if  I  ask  after  your  whole 
family  ;  for  I  take  a  very  great  interest  in  them  all. 

M.  Dim.  We  are  infinitely  obliged  to  you,  sir.  I  .  .  . 
D.  Ju.  (^Holding  out  his  hand).  Shake  hands,  then,  M. 
Dimanche.     Are  you  really  a  friend  of  mine? 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  I  am  your  servant. 

D.  Ju.  I'  gad,  I  am  yours  with  all  my  heart. 

M.  Dim.  You  do  me  too  much  honour.     I  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  you. 

M.  Dim.  Sir,  you  are  too  kind. 

D.  Ju.  And  that  without  any  motive,  believe  me. 

M.  Dim.  I  have  certainly  not  deserved  this  favour. 
But,  sir  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Nonsense  !  Come,  Mr.  Dimanche,  will  you 
take  supper  with  me  without  any  ceremony? 

M.  Dim.  No,  sir;  I  must  return  home  immediately.  I.  .  . 

D.  Ju.  {Rising).  Here,  quick,  a  candle  to  light  Mr. 
Dimanche,  and  let  four  or  five  of  my  fellows  take  their 
blunderbusses  to  escort  him. 

M.  Dim.  {Rising  also).  Sir,  this  is  not  necessary ;  lean 
very  well  go  alone.  But  .  .  .  {Sganarelle  quickly  removes 
the  chairs). 

D.  Ju.  What?  They  shall  escort  you;  I  take  too  great 
an  interest  in  you.  I  am  your  humble  servant,  and  your 
debtor  to  boot. 

M.  Dim.  Ah  !  sir  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  I  do  not  conceal  it,  and  I  tell  it  to  everyone. 

M.  Dim.  If .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  Do  you  wish  me  to  see  you  home  ? 

M.  Dim.  Oh,  sir !  you  jest.     Sir  .    .    . 


60BNK1V.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  II9 

D.  Ju.  Embrace  me  then,  pray.  Once  more  I  desire 
you  to  be  convinced  that  I  am  entirely  yours,  and  that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  world  which  1  would  not  do  to 
serve  you. 

Scene  IV. — M.  Dimanche,  Sganarelle. 

Scan.  I  must  needs  own  that  my  master  is  a  man  who 
loves  you  much. 

M.  Dim.  It  is  true ;  he  is  so  polite  to  me,  and  pays  me 
so  many  compliments,  that  I  can  never  ask  him  for  money. 

Scan.  I  assure  you  that  his  whole  household  would  lay 
down  their  lives  for  you  ;  and  I  wish  something  would 
happen  to  you,  that  somebody  would  take  it  into  his  head 
to  cudgel  you,  then  you  should  see  how  .    .    . 

M.  Dim.  I  believe  it ;  but,  Sganarelle,  pray  speak  a 
word  to  him  about  my  money. 

Scan.  Oh  !  do  not  you  trouble  yourself  about  that,  he 
will  pay  you  as  well  as  anyone. 

M.  Dim.  But  you,  Sganarelle,  you  owe  me  something 
on  your  own  account. 

Sgan.  Fie  !  do  not  speak  of  that. 

M.  Dim.  What?     I  .    .    . 

Sgan.  Do  I  not  know  what  I  owe  you  ? 

M.  Dnh  Yes.     But  .    .    . 

Sgan.  Come,  Mr.  Dimanche,  I  am  going  to  light  you 
to  the  door. 

M.  Dim.  But  my  money  .    .    . 

Sgan.  (Tah'ng  M.  Dimanche  by  the  arm).  You  are 
only  jesting. 

M.  Dim.  I  wish  to  .    .    . 

Sgan.  {Pulling  hint).  Come. 

M.  Dim.  I  intend  to  .    .    . 

Sgan.  {Pushing  him  towards  the  door).  Fiddlesticks  ! 

M.  Dim.  But  .    .    . 

Sgan.  {Pushing  him  again).  Fie  ! 

M.  Dim.  I  .    . 

Sgan.  {Pushing  him  quite  off  the  stage).  Fie  I  say." 

'*  Sganarelle  has  not  much  more  money  to  give  than  his  master ;  but 
as  he  has  not  the  same  means  of  awing  or  of  flattering  M.  Dimanche,  he 
uses  but  few  words,  and  trusts  to  the  strength  of  his  arm  to  silence  his 
creditor,  and  to  turn  him  out  of  the  house.  .  The  servant,  as  well  as  the 
master,  are  true  to  their  natures. 


I20  DON  JUAN  ;  OR,  Fact  iv. 

Scene  V. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle,  La  Violette. 

La  V.  (71?  Don  Juan).     Sir,  here  is  your  father. 

D.  Ju.  Oh  !  This  completes  the  business !     It  wanted 

Jy  this  to  drive  me  mad  ! 

Scene  VI. — Don  Louis,  Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Louis.  I  see  plainly  that  I  disturb  you,  and  that  you 
could  very  easily  have  dispensed  with  my  visit.  It  is  true 
we  are  a  thorn  in  one  another's  path,  and  if  you  are  tired 
of  seeing  me,  I  am  also  very  tired  of  your  unruly  beha- 
viour. Alas  !  how  little  do  we  know  what  we  do,  when 
we  do  not  allow  Heaven  to  judge  what  we  need,  when  we 
wish  to  be  wiser  than  it,  and  importune  it  by  our  blind 
wishes  and  inconsiderate  demands  !  I  most  anxiously 
wished  for  a  son ;  I  incessantly  prayed  with  incredible  fer- 
vour for  one ;  and  this  son,  whom  I  obtained  by  wearying 
Heaven  with  my  prayers  is  the  plague  and  punishment  of 
that  very  life,  of  which  I  thought  he  would  be  the  joy  and 
consolation  !  With  what  eye,  do  you  think,  can  I  behold 
the  many  unworthy  actions,  whose  wickedness  can  hardly 
be  palliated  before  the  world,  that  continuance  of  dis- 
graceful affairs  which  daily  compels  us  to  weary  the  good- 
ness of  our  sovereign,  and  which  has  exhausted,  in  his 
opinion,  the  merit  of  my  services,  and  the  influence  of  my 
friends  ?  Ah  !  what  a  mean  spirit  you  have  !  Do  you 
blush  because  you  so  little  deserve  your  lofty  birth  ?  Tell 
me,  pray,  what  right  have  you  to  be  proud  of  it  ?  and 
what  have  you  done  in  this  world  that  gives  you  a  claim 
to  be  considered  a  nobleman  ?  Do  you  think  it  is  suffi- 
cient to  bear  the  title  and  arms  of  one,  and  that  it  is  any 
glory  to  be  descended  of  noble  blood,  if  one  lives  in  in- 
famy? No,  no  !  Rank  is  nothing  without  virtue.'*  We 
have  therefore  no  share  in  the  glory  of  our  ancestors,  un- 
less we  strive  to  be  like  them  ;  and  the  lustre  which  their 
actions  reflect  upon  us,  demands  that  we  should  do  them 
like  honour,  follow  in  their  footsteps,  and  not  degenerate 
from  their  virtues,  if  we  would  be  deemed  their  true  de- 
scendants.    Hence  in  vain  are  you  born  of  lofty  progeni- 

23  Bums  also  says ''  The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a"  that." 


scBNKvn.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE   STATUE.  121 

tors ;  they  disown  you  as  one  of  their  race,  and  all  the 
illustrious  deeds  that  they  have  achieved  confer  no  advan- 
tage upon  you ;  on  the  contrary,  their  renown  only  re- 
dounds to  your  discredit;  and  their  glory  is  a  shining 
light  which  renders  clear  to  the  eyes  of  all  the  infamy  of 
your  actions.  Know,  finally,  that  a  nobleman  who  leads 
a  wicked  life  is  a  monster  in  nature ;  that  virtue  is  the 
prime  badge  of  nobility  ;  that  I  regard  much  less  the 
name  which  a  man  bears  than  the  actions  which  he  com- 
mits, and  that  I  should  value  more  highly  a  porter's  son 
who  was  an  honest  man,  than  a  monarch's  son  who  led 
such  a  life  as  yours.^* 

D.  Ju.  Sir,  if  you  were  to  take  a  seat,  you  would  speak 
more  at  your  ease. 

D.  Louis.  No,  insolent  wretch;  I  will  neither  take  a 
seat  nor  speak  any  more,  and  I  plainly  perceive  that  all 
my  words  have  no  effect  upo4i  you ;  but  learn,  unworthy 
son,  that  by  your  actions  you  have  worn  out  a  father's 
love ;  that,  sooner  than  you  think,  I  shall  put  a  stop  to 
your  irregularities,  forestajl  the  vengeance  of  Heaven,  and, 
by  your  punishment,  blot  out  the  shame  of  being  your 
father. 

Scene  VII. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Ju.  (^Still  addressing  his  father,  although  he  has  left). 
Why !  die  as  soon  as  you  can,  it  is  the  best  thing  you  can 
possibly  do.  Every  one  must  have  his  turn ;  it  drives  me 
mad  to  see  fathers  live  as  long  as  their  children.  (lie 
throws  himself  down  in  his  arm-chair^. 

Scan.   Ah  !   sir,  you  are  in  the  wrong. 

D.  Ju.    (^Rising).   I  in  the  wrong. 

Sgan.    (Trembling').   Sir  .    .    . 

D.  Ju.  I  in  the  wrong  ?^ 

Scan.  Yes,  sir,  you  were  wrong  in  having  listened  to 
what  he  said  to  you,  and  you  ought  to  have  turned  him 
out  by  the  shoulders.     Did  any  one  ever  see  anything 

**  Nearly  the  whole  of  Don  Louis'  speech,  beginning  from,  ''  Oh  !  what 
a  mean  spirit  you  have,"  is,  in  the  original,  in  blank  verse. 

''^Don  Juan  twice  says  to  Sganarelle,  "I  in  the  wrong?"  The  re- 
proaches of  his  servant  would  not  sting  him  so  much  if  he  did  not  feel 
he  deserved  them. 


123  DON  jnAN  ;  OR,  f  act  iv. 

more  impertinent  ?  A  father  to  come  and  remonstrate 
with  his  son,  and  tell  him  to  reform  his  ways,  not  to  forget 
his  lofty  birth,  to  live  the  life  of  a  respectable  man,  and 
a  hundred  other  silly  things  of  the  same  kind  !  Can  a 
man  like  you,  who  knows  how  to  live,  stand  such  a  thing 
as  that?  I  wonder  at  your  patience.  Had  I  been  in 
your  place,  I  should  have  sent  him  about  his  business. 
(Aside).      O  cursed  complaisance,  what  do   you   bring 

f  me  to ! 

'       D.  Ju.  Will  supper  be  ready  soon  ? 

Scene  VIIL — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle,  Ragotin. 

Rag.  Sir,  a  lady,  with  her  face  veiled,  wishes  to  speak 
to  you. 

D.  Ju.  Who  can  that  be  ? 
Scan.  You  must  see. 

Scene  IX. — Donna  Elvira,  veiledy  Don  Juan, 
Sganarelle. 

D.  Elv.  Do  not  be  surprised,  Don  Juan,  to  see  me  at 
this  hour,  and  in  this  dress.  An  urgent  motive  obliges 
me  to  make  you  this  visit ;  what  I  have  to  say  will  admit 
of  no  delay.  I  do  not  come  here  possessed  by  that  wrath 
I  showed  a  little  while  ago ;  I  am  changed  from  what  I 
was  this  morning.  I  am  no  longer  that  Donna  Elvira 
who  uttered  imprecations  against  you,  whose  angry  soul 
vented  nothing  but  threats,  and  breathed  only  revenge. 
Heaven  has  banished  from  my  heart  all  that  unworthy 
passion  which  I  entertain  for  you,  all  those  tumultuous 
upheavings  of  a  criminal  attachment,  all  those  shameful 
outbursts  of  an  earthly  and  gross  love  ;  and  it  has  left  in 
my  heart  a  flame  which  burns  for  you  without  any  sensual 
affection,  a  tenderness  entirely  holy,  a  love  detached  from 
everything,  which  is  not  actuated  by  selfishness,  and  cares 
only  for  your  good. 

D.  Ju.   (  Wliispering  to  Sganarelle).     I  think  you  weep  ? 

Scan.  Excuse  me. 

D.  Elv.  It  is  this  perfect  and  pure  love  which  brings 
me  hither  for  your  sake,  to  impart  to  you  a  warning  from 
Heaven,  and  endeavour  to  turn  you  away  from  that  preci- 
pice whither  you  are  hastening.     Yes,  Don  Juan,  I  know 


scKNKixl  THE  FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  123 

all  the  irregularities  of  your  life ;  and  that  same  Heaven 
which  has  touched  my  heart,  and  made  me  see  the  errors 
of  my  own  conduct,  has  inspired  me  to  come  to  you,  and 
to  tell  you  in  its  name  that  your  crimes  have  tired  out  its 
mercy,  that  its  dreadful  wrath  is  ready  to  fall  upon  you, 
that  you  can  avoid  this  by  a  speedy  repentance,  and  that 
p>erhaps  not  another  day  is  left  to  save  younjelf  from  the 
greatest  of  all  miseries.  As  for  me,  no  earthly  ties  bind 
me  any  longer  to  you.  Thanks  be  to  Heaven,  I  have 
abandoned  all  foolish  thoughts.  I  am  resolved  to  retire 
into  a  nunnery ;  I  only  hope  to  live  long  enough  to  ex- 
piate the  crime  I  have  committed,  and,  by  an  austere 
penance,  to  deserve  pardon  for  the  blindness  into  which  I 
have  been  plunged  by  the  violence  of  a  guilty  passion. 
But,  when  I  am  retired  from  the  world,  it  would  greatly 
pain  me  if  a  person,  whom  I  once  tenderly  loved,  should 
be  made  an  ominous  example  of  the  justice  of  Heaven ;  it 
will  be  an  unspeakable  delight  to  me  if  I  can  prevail  upon 
you  to  ward  off  the  dreadful  blow  that  threatens  you.  I 
beseech  you,  Don  Juan,  grant  me  as  a  last  favour  tliis 
soothing  consolation  ;  refuse  me  not  your  own  salvation, 
which  I  beg  of  you  with  tears  ;  if  you  are  not  moved  for 
your  own  sake,  let  at  least  my  entreaties  prevail,  and  spare 
me  the  terrible  grief  of  seeing  you  condemned  to  eternal 
punishments. 

Scan.  (AsUi).   Poor  lady  ! 

D.  Elv.  I  once  loved  you  very  tenderly ;  nothing  in 
this  world  was  so  dear  to  me  as  you ;  I  forgot  my  duty 
for  your  sake ;  I  have  done  every  thing  for  you ;  all  the 
reward  I  desire  is  that  you  should  amend  your  life,  and 
ward  off  your  destruction.  Save  yourself,  I  beseech  you, 
either  for  your  own  sake  or  mine.  Once  more,  Don  Juan, 
I  beg  it  of  you  with  tears ;  and  if  the  tears  of  a  person 
you  once  loved  have  no  influence  with  you,  I  conjure  you 
by  everything  that  is  most  capable  of  moving  you. 

Scan.  {Aside,  looking  to  Don  Juan^.  You  have  the 
feelings  of  a  tiger. 

D.  Ely.  I  leave  you  now ;  that  is  all  I  had  to  say  to 
you. 

D.  Ju.  Madam,  it  is  late,  stay  here.  We  shall  give  )X)u 
as  good  a  room  as  we  can. 


124  l>ON  JUAN;   OR,  [ACTIT. 

D.  Elv.   No,  Don  Juan,  do  not  detain  me  longer. 

D.  Ju.  Madam,  you  will  oblige  me  by  remaining,  I 
assure  you. 

D.  Elv.  No,  I  tell  you,  let  us  not  waste  time  in  need- 
less words.  Let  me  go  immediately;  do  not  insist  upon 
accompanying  me,  and  think  only  of  profiting  by  my 
advice. 

Scene  X. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  J.  Do  you  know  that  I  felt  something  stirring  in 
my  heart  for  her,  that  I  was  rather  pleased  with  this 
strange  unexpected  adventure,  and  that  her  careless  dress, 
her  languishing  air,  and  her  tears,  rekindled  within  me 
some  small  embers  of  an  extinguished  flame  ? 

Sgan.  That  is  as  much  as  to  say  her  words  did  not 
make  any  impression  on  you. 

D.  Ju.   Supper,  quickly. 

Sgan.   Very  well. 

Scene  XI. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle,  La  Violette, 
Ragotin. 

D.  Ju.  (^Sitting  down  at  table).  Sganarelle,  we  must 
really  think  of  amending  our  lives. 

Sgan.  Ay,  that  we  must ! 

D.  Ju.  Yes,  upon  my  word,  we  must  reform.  Twenty 
or  thirty  years  more  of  this  life,  and  then  we  shall  consider 
about  it. 

Sgan.  Oh! 

D.  Ju.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? 

Sgan.  Nothing.  Here  comes  supper.  {He  takes  a  bit 
from  one  of  the  dishes  that  was  brought  in,  and  puts  it  into 
his  mouth). 

D.  Ju.  Methinks  you  have  a  swollen  cheek :  what  is  the 
matter  with  it  ?     Speak.     What  have  you  in  your  mouth  ? 

Sgan.  Nothing. 

D.  Ju.  Show  it  me.  Zounds  !  he  has  got  a  swelling  in 
his  cheek.  Quick  !  a  lancet  to  open  it.  The  poor  fellow 
cannot  stand  this  any  longer,  and  this  abscess  may  choke 
him.     Wait  !  see  it  is  quite  ripe.     Ha  !  you  rascal ! 

Sgan.  Upon  my  word.  Sir,  I  wished  to  see  whether 
your  cook  had  not  put  in  too  much  pepper  or  salt. 

D.  Ju.   Come,  sit  down  there  and  eat.     I  have  some 


SCENE  XII.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  125 

business  for  you  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  supper.  I  per- 
ceive you  are  hungry. 

Sgan.  {Sitting  down  at  the  table).  I  should  think  so, 
Sir,  I  have  not  eaten  anything  since  this  morning.  Taste 
that,  it  is  very  good.  {Ragotin  takes  Sganarelle'' s  plate 
away,  as  soon  as  he  has  got  anything  upon  it  to  eat).  My 
plate,  my  plate  !  Gently,  if  you  please.  Ods  boddikins  ! 
my  mannikin,  how  nimble  you  are  in  giving  clean  plates  ! 
I  say,  little  la  Violette,  you  are  not  very  handy  in  giving 
a  man  something  to  drink  !  ( Whilst  la  Violette  gives 
Sganarelle  something  to  drink  Ragotin  again  takes  away  his 
plate). 

D.  Ju.  Who  can  it  be  that  knocks  in  such  a  manner  ? 

Sgan.   Who  the  deuce  comes  to  disturb  us  at  our  meal  ? 

D.  Ju.  I  wish  to  take  my  supper  at  least  in  peace  ;  let 
no  one,  therefore,  come  in. 

Scan.  Let  me  alone,  I  shall  go  to  the  door  myself. 

D.  Ju.  {Seeing  Sganarelle  return  frightened).  What  ails 
you  ?     What  is  the  matter? 

Sgan.  {^Nodding  his  head  as  the  statue  did).  The  .  .  . 
is  there. 

D.  Ju.  Let  us  go  and  see,  and  let  us  show  that  nothing 
can  move  me. 

Sgan.  Ah  !  poor  Sganarelle,  where  will  you  hide  your* 
self? 

Scene  XIL — Don  Juan,  The  Statue  of  the  Com- 
mander, Sganarelle,  La  Violette,  Ragotin. 

D.  Ju.  (7<7  his  servants).  A  chair  and  a  plate  here. 
Quick  !  (y^Don  Juan  and  the  Statue  sit  down  at  the  table). 
i^To  Sganarelle).    Come,  sit  down. 

Sgan.  Sir,  I  have  lost  my  appetite. 

D.  Ju.  Sit  down  here,  I  say.  Give  me  something  to 
drink.  The  Commander's  health,  Sganarelle.  Give  him 
some  wine. 

Sgan.  Sir,  I  am  not  thirsty. 

D.  Ju.  Drink,  and  sing  a  song  to  entertain  the  Com- 
mander. 

Sgan.  I  have  got  a  cold,  Sir. 

D.  Ju.  No  matter.  Begin.  {^To  his  servants).  You, 
there,  come  and  sing  along  with  him. 


I2($  DON  JUAN;   OR, 


[act  V. 


Stat.  It  is  enough,  Don  Juan.  I  invite  you  to  come 
and  take  supper  with  me  to-morrow.  Will  you  be  so 
bold? 

D.  Ju.  Yes.     Sganarelle  alone  shall  accompany  me. 

Scan.  I  thank  you,  to-morrow  is  fast-day  with  me. 

D.  Ju.   (7<?  Sganarelle).     Take  a  light. 

Stat.  No  need  of  light  for  those  whom  Heaven  guides. 


ACT  V. 

(  The  theatre  represents  a  landscape'). 

Scene  I. — Don  Louis,  Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Lou.  What  !  my  son,  is  it  possible  that  the  mercy 
of  Heaven  has  granted  my  prayers?  Is  what  you  tell  me 
really  true?  Do  you  not  deceive  me  with  a  false  expecta- 
tion ?  and  can  I  indeed  believe  the  astonishing  tidings  of 
your  conversion  ? 

D.  Ju.  {Playing  the  hypocrite).'^  Yes,  I  have  seen  the 
error  of  my  ways;  I  am  no  longer  the  same  I  was  last 
night ;  and  Heaven  has  suddenly  wrought  a  change  in  me, 
which  will  surprise  every  one.  It  has  touched  my  heart 
and  opened  my  eyes ;  I  look  back  with  horror  upon  my 
long  blindness,  and  the  crimes  and  disorders  of  the  life  I 
have  led.  In  my  own  mind  I  consider  all  my  former 
abominations  ;  I  am  astonished  that  Heaven  could  bear 
with  me  so  long,  and  that  it  has  not  twenty  times  dis- 
charged upon  my  head  the  thunderbolts  of  its  terrible  jus- 
tice. I  see  how  kind  and  merciful  it  has  been  to  me  in 
not  punishing  my  crimes ;  I  intend  to  profit  by  it  as  I 
ought,  to  show  openly  to  the  world  a  sudden  change  in  my 
life,  to  repair,  by  those  means,  the  scandal  of  my  past 
actions,  and  endeavour  to  obtain  from  Heaven  a  full  re- 

26  Don  Juan  until  now  was  swayed  only  by  his  passions,  and  a  slave 
to  pleasure  and  debauchery.  When  he  finds  himself  everywhere 
detested,  when  he  sees  the  anger  of  powerful  families  raised  against  him, 
when  his  friends  leave  him  isolated,  and  his  creditors  become  importunate, 
when  even  his  own  father  has  cursed  and  disinherited  him,  and  when  he 
imagines  that  the  shadow  of  a  man  he  has  killed  pursues  him.  the  only 
way  that  is  left  open  to  him,  is  falsehood  and  hypocrisy.  He  does  not 
change  his  character,  it  is  true,  but  his  conversation  and  behaviour. 


SCBNK  n.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  127 

mission  of  my  sins.  I  am  now  going  to  strive  for  this;  I 
beg  of  you,  Sir,  to  aid  me  in  this  design,  and  to  assist  me 
in  making  choice  of  a  person,  who  may  serve  me  as  a 
guide,  and  under  whose  conduct  I  may  walk  safely  in  the 
way  upon  which  I  am  entering. 

D.  Lo.  Ah !  my  son  !  how  easily  does  the  love  of  a 
father  return,  and  how  quickly  do  the  offences  of  a  son 
fade  from  the  memory  at  the  least  mention  of  repentance ! 
I  have  already  forgotten  all  the  sorrows  you  have  caused 
me  ;  everything  is  effaced  by  the  words  you  have  just 
spoken.  I  confess  I  am  beside  myself;  I  shed  tears  of  joy ; 
all  my  prayers  are  answered,  and  henceforth  I  have  noth- 
ing to  ask  from  Heaven.  Embrace  me,  my  son,  and  per- 
sist, I  conjure  you,  in  this  praiseworthy  resolution.  As 
for  me,  I  shall  go  immediately  to  carry  these  happy  tidings 
to  your  mother,  unite  with  her  in  expressing  our  delight, 
and  return  thanks  to  Heaven  for  the  holy  thoughts  with 
which  it  has  vouchsafed  to  inspire  you. 

Scene  II. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

Sgan.  Ah,  Sir,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  converted !  I 
have  long  been  waiting  for  this  ;  and  now,  thanks  to  Hea- 
ven, all  my  wishes  are  accomplished. 

D.  Ju.    Hang  the  booby  ! 

Sgan.  How,  booby  ? 

D.  Ju.  What,  do  you  think  I  was  serious  in  what  I  said 
just  now,  and  do  you  imagine  that  my  mouth  uttered  what 
my  heart  believed  ? 

Sgan.  What !  it  is  not  .  .  .  You  do  not  ....  Your 
.  .  .  {Aside).  Oh !  what  a  man  !  what  a  man  !  what  a 
man! 

D.  Ju.  No,  no,  I  am  not  altered,  and  my  feelings  are 
always  the  same. 

Sgan.  What,  do  you  not  yield  to  the  surprising  miracle 
of  a  moving  and  speaking  statue  ? 

D.  Ju.  There  is  really  something  in  that  which  I  do 
not  understand ;  but,  whatever  it  may  be,  it  is  not  capable 
either  of  convincing  my  judgment,  or  of  shaking  my  nerves, 
and  if  I  said  I  wished  to  reform  my  conduct,  and  was  going 
to  lead  an  exemplary  life,  it  is  a  plan  which  I  have  formed 
out  of  pure  policy,  a  useful  stratagem,  a  necessary  disguise 


128  DON  JUAN  ;   OR,  [act  v. 

which  I  am  willing  to  adopt,  in  order  to  spare  the  feelings 
of  a  father,  whose  assistance  I  want,  and  to  screen  myself, 
with  respect  to  mankind,  from  the  consequences  of  a 
hundred  disagreable  adventures.  Sganarelle,  I  make  you 
my  confidant  in  this  case,  and  I  am  very  glad  to  have  a 
witness  of  the  feeling  of  my  inmost  soul,  and  of  the  real 
motives  which  instigate  me  to  act  as  I  do." 

Scan.  What !  you  believe  in  nothing,  and  you  pretend 
at  the  same  time  to  set  up  as  a  virtuous  man  ! 

D.  Ju.  And  why  not?  There  are  many  others  besides 
myself,  who  carry  on  this  trade,  and  who  make  use  of  the 
same  mask  to  deceive  the  world. 

Scan.  {Aside).    Oh  !  what  a  man  !  what  a  man  ! 

D.  Ju.  There  is  no  longer  any  shame  in  acting  thus : 
hypocrisy  is  a  fashionable  vice,  and  all  fashionable  vices 
pass  for  virtues.  The  character  of  a  virtuous  man  is  the 
best  part  which  one  can  play.  Now-a-days,  the  profession 
of  hypocrite  possesses  marvellous  advantages.  It  is  an  art, 
the  quackery  of  which  is  always  respected ;  and  although 
it  be  seen  through,  no  one  dares  to  say  anything  against  it. 
All  other  vices  of  mankind  are  liable  to  censure,  and 
everyone  is  at  liberty  to  attack  them  openly ;  but  hypocrisy 
is  a  privileged  vice,  which,  with  its  own  hand,  closes  the 
mouth  of  all  the  world,  and  peacefully  enjoys  a  sovereign 
impunity.  By  mere  force  of  humbug,  a  compact  body  is 
formed  by  the  whole  set.  He  who  offends  one,  brings 
them  all  upon  him ;  and  those,  whom  every  one  knows  to 
act  *in  all  good  faith,  and  to  be  perfectly  sincere, — even 
those,. I  say,  are  generally  the  dupes  of  the  others;  they 
simply  fall  into  the  traps  of  the  humbugs,  and  blindly 
support  those  who  ape  their  own  conduct.  How  many, 
think  you,  do  I  know  who,  by  this  stratagem,  have  adroitly 
patched  up  the  errors  of  their  youth ;  who  put  on  a  cloak 
of  religion,  and  beneath  this  venerated  habit  obtain  leave 

^  The  maxims  which  Don  Juan  promulgates  farther  on  in  defence  of 
hypocrisy,  are  not  so  much  for  Sganarelle  as  for  the  audience  who  listen 
to  the  piece ;  hence  the  statement  that  he  is  "  very  glad  to  have  a  wit- 
ness ...  of  the  (his)  real  motives,"  which  he  then  unfolds.  Don  Juan  is 
above  all  afraid  that,  for  one  single  moment,  he  could  be  thought  sincerely 
repentant,  and  is  glad  to  have  some  confidant  who  can  testify  to  his 
hypocrisy.  I  doubt,  however,  if  the  real  hypocrite  ever  unbosoms  himseL^ 
even  to  his  most  intimate  companion.    Tartuffe  has  no  confidant. 


SCBNK  II.]  THE   FEAST  WITH   THE  STATUE.  129 

to  be  the  most  wicked  fellows  on  earth?  It  signifies 
nothing  that  their  intrigues,  and  they  themselves,  are 
known  for  what  they  are,  they  have  none  the  less  influence 
in  society;  a  demurely  bent  head,  a  canting  sigh,  and  a 
pair  of  up-turned  eyes,  justify  with  the  world  all  that  they 
can  do.  It  is  under  this  favourable  shelter  that  I  intend 
to  take  refuge,  and  arrange  matters  comfortably.  I  shall 
not  abandon  my  darling  habits,  but  I  shall  take  care  to 
conceal  them,  and  amuse  myself  quietly.  If  I  should  be 
discovered,  I  shall,  without  stirring  a  finger,  find  my 
interests  espoused  by  the  whole  crew,*®  and  be  defended  by 
them  through  thick  and  thin  against  every  one.  In  short, 
this  is  the  true  way  of  doing  with  impunity  all  that  I 
please.  I  shall  set  myself  up  as  a  censor  of  the  actions 
of  others,  judge  ill  of  every  one,  and  think  well  only  of 
myself.  Whoever  has  offended  me,  however  slightly,  I 
shall  never  forgive;  but  preserve,  without  much  ado,  an 
irreconcilable  hatred.  I  shall  announce  myself  as  the 
advocate  of  the  interests  of  Heaven ;  and,  under  this  con- 
venient pretext,  I  shall  persecute  my  enemies,  accuse  them 
of  impiety,  let  loose  against  them  those  rash  zealots  who, 
without  knowing  why  or  wherefore,  will  raise  an  outcry 
against  them,  overwhelm  them  with  abuse,  and  openly 
condemn  them  to  perdition  on  their  own  private  authority. 
It  is  thus  that  we  must  profit  by  men's  weaknesses,  and 
that  a  man  who  is  no  fool  adapts  himself  to  the  vices  of 
his  age.^ 

Sgan.  O  Heavens  !  what  do  I  hear  ?  You  only  wanted 
to  be  a  hypocrite  to  make  you  perfect ;  and  now  you  have 
reached  the  height  of  your  abominations.  Sir,  your  last 
stroke  is  more  than  I  can  bear,  and  I  cannot  help  speak- 
ing. Do  what  you  please  with  me ;  beat  me,  break  every 
bone  in  my  body,  kill  me  if  you  like;  I  must  discharge 
my  conscience,  and,  like  a  faithful  servant,  tell  you  what 
I  ought.     Know,  sir,  that  the  pitcher  goes  so  often  to  the 

28  The  original  has  a  "cabale,"  which  was  formerly  said  only  of  the  clique 
of  The  Precieuses ;  but,  when  Don  Juan  was  performed  (1665),  it  had 
come  to  mean  •'  a  set  of  organized  devotees." 

^  These  words  contain  a  vigorous  protest  against  those  who  had  attacked 
Tartuffe, — which  had  already  been  played  tentatively — and  through  whose 
machinations  it  had  been  forbidden  to  be  brought  out. 

VOL.  II.  I 


130  ON  JUAN;   OR,  [ACTV. 

well,  that  it  comes  home  broken  at  last,  and  as  that 
author,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  very  well  says,  man 
is,  in  this  world,  like  a  bird  on  a  bough ;  the  bough  is 
fixed  to  the  tree;  he  who  clings  to  the  tree  follows  good 
precepts ;  good  precepts  are  better  than  fair  words ;  fair 
words  are  found  at  court ;  at  court  are  courtiers ;  the 
courtiers  follow  the  fashion ;  fashion  proceeds  from  fancy ; 
fancy  is  a  faculty  of  the  soul;  the  soul  gives  us  life;  life 
ends  in  death ;  death  causes  us  to  think  of  Heaven ; 
Heaven  is  above  the  earth  ;  the  earth  is  not  the  sea  ;  the 
sea  is  subject  to  storms ;  the  storms  toss  vessels ;  vessels 
have  need  of  a  good  pilot ;  a  good  pilot  is  prudent ; 
young  people  are  not  prudent;  young  people  ought  to 
obey  old  people;  old  people  love  riches;  riches  make 
men  rich  ;  the  rich  are  not  poor ;  the  poor  have  necessi- 
ties ;  necessity  has  no  law ;  he  who  knows  no  law  lives 
like  a  brute  beast,  and  consequently  you  shall  be  con- 
demned to  the  bottomless  pit.*" 

D.  Ju.  What  fine  arguments ! 

Scan.  If  you  do  not  give  in,  after  this,  so  much  the 
worse  for  you. 

Scene  III. — Don  Carlos,  Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

D.  Car.  Don  Juan,  I  meet  you  just  in  time ;  and  I  am 
glad  to  address  you  here  rather  than  at  your  own  house, 
to  ask  you  what  you  are  resolved  to  do.  You  know  that 
it  concerns  me,  and  that,  in  your  presence,  I  took  upon 
me  to  watch  over  this  affair.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  con- 
ceal it,  I  sincerely  wish  that  things  may  be  arranged  in 
an  amicable  way ;  there  is  nothing  which  I  would  not  do 
to  induce  you  to  take  that  course,  and  to  see  you  publicly 
recognize  my  sister  as  your  wife. 

D.  Ju.  (^In  a  hypocritical  tone).  Alas  !  I  should  indeed 
like  to  give  you,  with  all  my  heart,  the  satisfaction  you 
desire ;  but  Heaven  is  directly  opposed  to  it ;  it  has  in- 
spired me  with  the  design  of  amending  my  life ;  and  I 


"•Some  of  the  early  editions  have  Sgfanarelle's  speech  only  as  far  as 
"  in  death."  At  last,  Sganarelle's  indignation  is  roused  by  Don  Juan's 
hypocrisy ;  he  flies  in  a  passion,  and  attacks  his  master  violently,  but 
flounders  in  the  midst  of  his  reasonings,  talks  nonsense,  and  ends  rather 
abruptly. 


SCENE  in.]  THE  FEAST  WITH  THE  STATUE.  I3I 

now  entertain  no  other  thoughts  than  entirely  to  abandon 
all  that  binds  me  to  this  world,  to  strip  myself  as  soon  as 
possible  of  all  sorts  of  pomps  and  vanities,  and  henceforth 
to  correct,  by  an  austere  behaviour,  all  those  criminal 
irregularities  into  which  a  blind  and  youthful  ardour 
led  me. 

D.  Car.  This  design,  Don  Juan,  does  not  clash  with 
what  I  propose,  and  the  company  of  a  lawful  wife  is  not 
in  opposition  to  the  praiseworthy  designs  with  which 
Heaven  has  inspired  you. 

D.  Ju.  Alas !  that  is  by  no  means  the  case.  Your  sister 
herself  has  formed  this  same  plan;  she  has  resolved  to 
withdraw  into  a  nunnery;  and  we  have  been  both  touched 
by  grace  at  the  same  time. 

D.  Car.  Her  going  into  a  nunnery  cannot  give  us 
satisfaction,  since  it  may  be  attributed  to  the  contempt 
which  you  show  to  her  and  our  family;  our  honour  de- 
mands that  she  should  be  married  to  you. 

D.  Ju.  I  assure  you  that  that  cannot  be.  I  was  very 
much  inclined  towards  that  union ;  and  this  very  day  I 
asked  counsel  from  Heaven  about  it ;  but,  when  I  did  so 
I  heard  a  voice  which  told  me  that  I  ought  not  to  think 
of  your  sister,  and  that  most  certainly  I  could  not  be 
saved  with  her. 

D.  Car.  Do  you  think,  Don  Juan,  that  you  can  blind 
us  with  such  fine  excuses  ? 

D.  Ju.   I  obey  the  voice  of  Heaven. 

D.  Car.  What  ?  would  you  have  me  be  satisfied  with 
such  a  speech  ? 

D.  Ju.   Heaven  will  have  it  so. 

D.  Car.  Have  you  taken  my  sister  out  of  a  nunnery,  to 
abandon  her  at  last  ?  i 

D.  Ju.  Heaven  ordains  it  so. 

D.  Car.   Shall  we  suffer  such  a  blot  upon  our  family  ? 

D.  Ju.  Seek  your  redress  from  Heaven. 

D.  Car.  Pooh  !  why  always  Heaven  ? 

D.  Ju.  Heaven  wishes  it  should  be  so. 

D.  Car.  It  is  enough,  Don  Juan  ;  I  understand  you. 
This  spot  is  not  favourable  for  what  I  have  to  say  about 
it ;  but  I  shall  find  you  before  long. 

D.  Ju.  You  may  do  as  you  please.    You  know  I  am  not 


132  DON  JUAN;  OR,  [ACTV. 

wanting  in  courage,  and  can  use  my  sword,  if  need  be.  I 
am  going  directly  through  that  little  lonely  street  which 
leads  to  the  great  convent ;  but  I  declare  to  you,  solemnly, 
I  do  not  wish  to  fight ;  Heaven  forbid  the  thought ;  and 
if  you  attack  rae,  we  shall  see  what  will  come  of  it." 
D.  Car.  Truly,  we  shall  see,  we  shall  see. 

Scene  IV. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle. 

Scan.  Sir,  what  a  devil  of  a  style  have  you  adopted  ? 
This  is  worse  than  all  the  rest,  and  I  liked  you  much  better 
as  you  were  before.  I  always  hoped  you  might  be  saved  ; 
but  now  I  despair  of  it;  I  believe  that  Heaven,  which  has 
endured  you  hitherto,  can  never  bear  this  last  abomination. 

D.  Ju.  Pooh !  Pooh  !  Heaven  is  not  so  particular  as 
you  think ;  and  if  men  were  every  time  to  .    .    . 

Scene  V. — Don  Juan,  Sganarelle,  A  Ghost  in  the  form 

of  a  veiled  woman. 

Sgan.  {Seeing  the  Ghosf),  Ah !  Sir,  Heaven  speaks  to 
you ;  it  is  a  warning  it  gives  you. 

D.  Ju.  If  Heaven  gives  me  a  warning,  it  mtist  speak 
more  plainly,  if  it  wishes  me  to  understand  it. 

Ghost.  Don  Juan  has  but  a  moment  to  take  advantage 
of  the  mercy  of  Heaven ;  and  if  he  does  not  repent  now, 
his  perdition  is  certain. 

SiAN.  Do  you  hear,  sir? 

D.  Ju.  Who  dares  to  utter  such  words  ?  I  think  I  know 
that  voice. 

Sgan.  Oh,  sir,  it  is  a  Ghost,  I  know  it  by  its  step. 

D.  Ju.  Ghost,  phantom,  or  devil,  I  shall  see  what  it  is. 
( Tfie  Ghost  changes  its  shape,  and  represents  time  with  a 
scythe  in  its  hand). 

Sgan.  Oh  Heavens  !  do  you  see  this  change  of  shape, 
sir? 

D.  Ju.  No,  no,  nothing  can  frighten  me  ;  and  I  shall 
try  with  my  sword  whether  it  is  a  body  or  a  spirit.  {The 
Ghost  vanishes  the  instant  Don  Juan  offers  to  strike  if). 

'1  In  the  former  scene,  Don  Juan  has  laid  down  the  theory  of  hypocrisy ; 
in  this  scene,  he  brings  it  into  practice. 


SCENE  VII.]  THE   FEAST   WITH   THE  STATUE.  1 33 

Scan.  Ah,  sir,  yield  to  so  many  proofs,  and  repent 
immediately. 

D.  Ju.  No,  no,  come  what  will,  it  shall  never  be  said 
that  I  was  capable  of  repentance.     Come,  follow  me. 

Scene  VI. — The  Statue  of  the  Commander,  Don 
Juan,  Sganarelle. 

Stat.  Stay,  Don  Juan.  You  gave  me  your  word  yester- 
day that  you  would  come  and  sup  with  me. 

D.  J.  Yes.     Where  shall  we  go  ? 

Stat.  Give  me  your  hand. 

D.  Ju.  Here  it  is. 

Stat.  Don  Juan,  a  terrible  death  is  the  consequence  of 
persistency  in  sin ;  and  when  the  mercy  of  Heaven  is 
refused,  its  thunder  appears. 

D.  Ju.  Oh  Heavens !  what  do  I  feel  ?  an  inward  flame 
devours  me,  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,  and  my  whole  body 
is  on  fire.  Oh  !  {Loud  claps  of  thunder  are  heard;  great 
flashes  of  lightning  fall  upon  Don  Juan.  The  earth  opens 
and  swallows  him  up;  flames  burst  out  on  the  very  spot 
where  he  went  down). 

Scene  VII. — Sganarelle,  alone. 

Alas  !  my  wages  !  my  wages  !  Every  one  is  satisfied  by 
his  death.  Offended  Heaven,  violated  laws,  maids  se- 
duced, families  dishonoured,  parents  outraged,  wives 
ruined,  husbands  driven  to  despair,  all  are  satisfied.  I 
alone  am  unhappy.     My  wages,  my  wages,  my  wages  I*'' 

'^  This  exclamation  of  Sganarelle  about  his  wages  gave  great  offence. 
People  considered  that  a  man  who  could  remain  cool  and  collected  in  the 
presence  of  such  a  miracle,  was  nothing  better  than  an  infidel,  and  that 
instead  of  shouting  for  his  wages,  he  would  have  done  better  to  remain 
dumb,  as  struck  by  a  religious  terror.  Moli&re  had  to  leave  out  the  ex- 
clamation, "my  wages."  But,  a  few  years  later,  it  was  allowed  to  pass 
without  any  remarks  when  put  into  the  mouth  of  Arlequie  in  a  stupid 
farce  by  a  certain  actor,  Rosimond. 


L'AMOUR  MEDECIN. 

COM^DIE. 


LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR 

A    COMEDY    IN    THREE    ACTS. 

{THE  ORIGINAL  IN  PROSE.) 

September  15TH,  1665. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


On  the  15th  of  September,  1665,  was  represented  at  Versailles  an  im- 
promptu comedy,  "  interspersed  with  tunes,  symphonies,  singing,  and 
dancing,"  called  Love  is  the  best  Doctor,  in  which  Moli^re  most  strenu- 
ously attacked  the  faculty  of  medicine.  He  had  already  begun  this  criti- 
cism in  Don  yuan;  but,  as  it  was  put  into  the  mouth  of  a  complete 
sceptic  in  everything,  it  was  not  considered  as  very  serious.  In  Love  is 
the  best  Doctor,  however,  he  ridiculed  the  most  fashionable  physicians,  and 
the  patients  who  consulted  and  trusted  them.  Four  doctors  are  called  in 
to  a  consultation,  in  which,  instead  of  comparing  notes  about  the  state  of 
the  patient,  they  converse  about  things  in  general  and  nothing  in  particu- 
lar ;  at  the  end,  the  distracted  father  finds  himself  more  bewildered  than 
before,  and  rushes  out  of  the  house  to  buy  a  quack  medicine,  which  the 
quack  declares  ''  cures  by  its  excellence  rare  more  complaints  than  are 
counted  up  in  a  whole  year,"  and  the  great  virtues  of  which  could  ne'er 
be  "  repaid  by  the  gold  of  all  climes  which  by  the  ocean  are  bound,"  but 
for  which  the  anxious  but  avaricious  parent  only  pays  "thirty  sous," 
"  which,"  he  says,  addressing  the  quack,  "  you  will  take,  if  you  please." 
The  professional  discussions  of  the  learned  brethren,  and  the  shrewd  in- 
terested advice  of  Dr.  Filerin,  who  rebukes  them,  and  tells  them  not  to 
quarrel  before  the  public,  and  thus  to  lessen  their  influence,  but  to  main- 
tain a  sedate  and  deeply  anxious  look,  are  admirable,  and  suitable,  not 
for  one  but  for  all  ages.  As  long  as  credulous  and  physic-swallowing 
people  exist,  and  as  long  as  external  appearances  will  be  taken  as  an  indi- 
cation of  true  knowledge  and  worth,  so  long  will  Moli^re's  comedy  retain 
its  sting.  In  nice  contrast  to  the  contentious  practitioners,  is  the  sharp 
common-sense  of  the  maid  Lisette,  and  the  stubbornness  and  miserly  feel- 
ings of  the  father  Sganarelle,  who  asks  advice,  but  does  not  follow  it, 
refuses  to  give  his  daughter  in  marriage  because  "  he  means  to  keep  his 
wealth,''  and  is  finally  tricked  out  of  his  daughter  and  a  dowry  as  well. 

Although  1  do  not  deny  the  courage,  I  cannot  admire  the  taste,  of 
Moli^re,  in  bringing  four  famous  court  physicians  bodily  on  the  stage,  in 
exposing  the  physical  defects  of  two  of  them, — the  one  a  stammerer,  the 
other  a  very  rapid  talker, — and  in  even  barely  disguising  their  names 
under  Greek  denominations,  and  which,  tradition  affirms,  are  due  to 
Boileau.  It  is  always  right  to  attack  and  ridicule  a  vice  on  the  stage, 
when  by  so  doing,  an  author  conscientiously  believes  that  he  is  improving 
his  fellow -men  at  the  same  time  that  he  is  amusing  them,  and  is  holding  "a 
mirror  up  to  nature ;"  but  it  can  never  be  defensible  to  imitate  hving  per- 

137 


138  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR. 

sons,  to  mimic  their  defects,  to  ape  their  attitudes — ^nay,  to  wear  their  very 
dress.  The  representative  of  a  vice  or  virtue  should,  I  imagine,  be  an 
embodiment  of  many  p>ersons,  possessed  of  such  good  or  evil  qualities, 
but  not  the  faithful  portrait  of  one  man  or  woman.  To  say  that  such  an 
imitation  is  Aristophanesk,  is  simply  to  disguise  a  very  ugly,  and  not  even 
a  very  artistical,  thing,  under  a  not  over-nicely  sounding  adjective. 

According  to  some  annotators,  Molifere  meant  by  DesfonandrSs,  com- 
poimded  of  two  Greek  words,  phonos,  murder,  and  andres,  men,  a  certain 
Dr.  Elie  Beda,  who,  at  the  time  when  Love  is  the  best  Doctor  was  first 
represented,  must  have  been  about  seventy  years  old.  He  had  adopted 
the  name  of  Des  Fougerais,  and  was  the  favourite  physician  of  the  high 
nobility  and  magistracy.  Bom  a  Protestant,  he  became  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic in  1648,  is  said  to  have  been  a  regular  medical  Vicar  of  Bray,  and 
never  to  have  changed  his  religious  or  medical  opinions,  except  to  benefit 
himself  and  his  family.  M.  A.  Jal,  in  his  Dictionnaire  critique,  pretends 
that  Guenault  is  caricatured  in  Desfonandr^s,  because  he  killed  so  many 
patients  by  antimony,  and  because  Desfonandris  boasts,  in  the  third  scene 
of  the  second  act,  that  he  has  "an  astonishing  horse,  an  indefatigable 
animal."  Now,  it  was  well  known  in  Moh^re's  time,  that  Guenault  was 
the  only  doctor  who  always  rode  on  horseback,  whilst  his  colleagues  went 
about  in  carriages,  sedan  chairs,  or  on  foot. 

Bahis  (barker),  seems  to  have  been  intended  for  Dr.  Esprit,  whose  real 
name  was  Andre,  and  who  spoke  very  fast.  He  had  been  one  of  the 
physicians  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  afterwards  of  Cardinal  Mazarin,  and 
finally  of  Monsieur,  brother  of  the  King,  and  was  a  declared  partizan  of 
emetics.  According  to  Raynaud,  les  Medecines  au  temps  de  Moliere,  1683, 
the  physician  Brayer  is  meant  by  Bahis,  chiefly  because  Bahis  is  in  French 
"  brailleur,  shoiter,"  and  therefore  there  is  a  similarity  in  name,  and  also 
because  he  was  one  of  the  four  physicians  who  held  a  famous  consultation 
at  Vincennes,  when  Cardinal  Mazarin  was  dying. 

By  Macroton  (stammerer),  it  is  generally  believed  that  Dr.  Francois 
Guenault  is  meant,  because  he  spoke  very  slowly.  This  gentleman  was 
one  of  the  best  known  and  most  celebrated  medical  men  of  the  time,  and 
hadbeen  physician  to  the  Prince  de  Conde,  and  then  to  the  Queen.  He  had 
often  professionally  attended  on  the  King,  and  scarcely  a  man  of  rank  fell 
ill  who  did  not  consult  him.  It  is  said  that  he  was  very  fond  of  money, 
and  a  declared  champion  of  antimony,  and,  through  his  influence 
amongst  the  great,  a  decided  lord  amongst  doctors. 

Tom^  (the  bleeder),  was  intended  for  Vallot,  first  physician  to  the  King 
with  the  rank  of  grand  Chamberlain,  as  well  as  with  the  hereditary  title 
of  Count ;  and  who  exercised  supreme  jurisdiction  over  all  the  doctors 
and  apothecaries  in  the  kingdom.  He  kept  a  youmal  de  la  Sante  du 
Roy  (Louis  XIV.),  published  in  1662,  which  contains  all  the  recipes  "  with 
which  Heaven  inspired  "  him,  to  keep  the  monarch  in  health.  Bleeding 
and  purgatives  appear  to  have  been  the  doctor's  two  favourite  remedies. 
He  was  a  strenuous  defender  of  emetics,  Peruvian  bark  and  laudanum, 
and  obtained  a  great  triumph  when  he  cured,  in  1650,  Lxjuis  XIV.,  with 
antimonial  wine  ;  but  became  anew  the  butt  of  many  satires  and  epigrams, 
on  the  death  of  Henrietta  of  France,  Queen  of  England,  whom  his  oppo- 
nents accused  him  of  having  killed  by  his  prescriptions. 

In  the  character  of  Dr.  Filerin  (a  friend  of  death),  it  is  said  that  Mo- 
liere wished  to  have  a  hit  at  the  whole  medical  faculty.  Mons.  E.  Soulie, 
in  the  Recherches  sur  Moliere,  states  that  in  Moli^re's  time,  there  lived  a 
certain  well-known  fencing-master,  Andre  Fillerin,  and  that  therefore,  the 


LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR. 


139 


joke  miist  have  been  enjoyed  by  the  audience,  on  hearing  that  name 
given  to  a  physician  who  killed  his  man. 

Love  is  the  best  Doctor  was,  according  to  the  preface,  "  sketched,  written 
off,  learned,  and  acted  in  five  days."  It  was  three  times  represented  at 
Versailles,  and  played,  for  the  first  time,  in  Paris,  on  the  22d  of  September 
1665,  when  it  was  acted  twenty-six  times  consecutively. 

Several  English  dramatists  have  borrowed  or  imitated  Moli^re's 
comedy. 

The  first  imitator  of  MoliSre's  Love  is  the  best  Doctor  is  John  Lacy, 
who  was  greatly  admired  by  Pepys^-  and  by  Charles  II.,  and  was  an  ex- 
cellent low-comedy  actor.  During  the  civil  wars,  he  served  as  lieutenant 
in  the  King's  army,  and  returned  to  the  stage  at  the  Restoration.  It  has 
been  rumoured  that  Lacy  was  a  great  favourite  of  Nell  Gwyn,  and  taught 
her,  amongst  other  things,  the  art  of  acting.  He  lived  to  an  advanced 
age,  and  died  on  the  17th  of  September  1681.  He  wrote  several  plays, 
one  of  which  was  The  Dumb  Lady,  or  the  Farrier  made  a  Physician,  a 
farce  in  five  acts,  performed  about  1672,  of  which  the  main  plot  is  taken 
from  MoliSre's  Mock  Doctor,  and  the  catastrophe  is  borrowed  from  his 
Love  is  the  Best  Doctor.  Lacy,  who  himself  most  probably  played  the 
part  of  Drench,  the  farmer,  dedicates  his  play  to  the  high-born  and  most 
hopeful  Prince  Charles,  Lord  Limerick,  and  Earl  of  Southampton,  the 
eldest  of  the  three  natural  sons  of  Charles  II.,  by  Barbara  Villiers,  wife  of 
Roger  Palmer,  liarl  of  Castlemain,  better  known  as  Duchess  of  Cleveland.* 
This  dedication  is  couched  in  such  high-flown  and  fawning  language,  that 
I  give  it  here  as  a  specimen  of  what  flattery  was  in  the  days  of 
Charles  II.: 

"  Great  Sir,— When  I  began  to  write  this  dedication  my  hand  shook  a  fear  pos- 
sessed me,  and  I  trembled ;  my  pen  fell  from  me,  and  my  whole  frame  grew  disordered 
as  if  blasted  with  some  sudden  upstart  comet.  Such  awe  and  reverence  waits  on  dig- 
nity, that  I  now  find  it  fit  for  me  to  wish  I  had  been  refused  the  honour  of  my  dedi- 
cation, rather  than  undertake  a  task  so  much  too  great  for  me.  How  shall  I  excuse 
this  bold  and  saucy  fault  ?  How  shall  my  mean,  unworthy  pen  render  you  your 
attributes  ?  Now  I  find  presumption  is  a  sin  indeed.  I  have  given  myself  a  wound 
beyond  the  cure  of  common  men  :  heal  me,  then,  great  sir ;  for  where  princes 
touch  the  cure  is  infallible.  And  now,  since  you  so  graciously  have  received  my 
Farrier,  who  dares  say  he  is  no  Physician  ?  When  you  vouchsafe  to  call  him  Doc- 
tor, he  has  commenced,  and  from  your  mouth  he  has  taken  his  degree  •  for  what 
you  say  is,  and  ought  to  be.  Such  a  power  is  due  to  you  from  the  greatness  of  your 
blood.  I  and  my  abject  muse  had  perished  but  for  you  ;  and  in  such  distress  whi- 
ther should  we  flee  for  shelter  but  to  him  that  has  power  to  spread  his  wings  and 
cover  us  ?  And  you  have  done  it  generously.  Yet  am  I  not  to  wonder  at  this 
virtue  in  you,  since  your  high  birth  can  do  no  less  for  you  than  to  make  you  good  • 
and  you  are  so.  And  may  that  goodness  and  humility  which  so  early  appears  in 
you  increase  to  a  full  perfection  !  May  your  virtues  prove  as  beautiful  as  your  per- 
son !  May  they  still  endeavour  to  out-vie  each  other,  yet  neither  obtain,  but  still 
walk  hand  in  hand  till  your  virtues  in  you  be  reverenced  by  all  mankind,  and  your 
lovely  person  honoured  by  all  women  ;  and  so  may  you  continue  to  a  long  and 
happy  life.  But  I  need  not  wish  this,  nor  the  world  doubt  it,  for  already  you're 
possessed  of  all  those  virtues  that  men  hereafter  may  reasonably  expect  from  you  ; 
for,  being  supported  by  majesty  of  one  side,  and  so  admired  and  beautiful  a  mother 
on  the  other,  besides  her  great  and  honourable  birth,  on  such  sure  foundations  you 
cannot  fail  our  hopes  ;  and  that  you  never  may,  shall  be  for  ever  the  prayers  of  your 
most  faithful  and  most  obedient  servant,  John  Lacy." 

»  See  Pepys'  Diary,  2i.st  and  22d  of  May  1662;  loth  and  12th  of  June  1663  ;  15th 
stPu-  '  j"'  of  May,  and  13th  of  August  1667  ;    and  28th  of  April  1668. 
^Ihis  dignity  was  conferred  upon  her,  according  to  Collins'  Peerage ,  on  account 
of  the  high  opinion  Charles  II.  entertained  of  her  "  personal  virtues.'*'    For  a  simi- 
lar high  opinion  entertained  by  Louis  XIV.,  the  latter  made  a  duchess  of  Mademoi- 
selle de  la  Valliere.— See  Introductory  Notice  to  the  Princess  o/Elis. 


140  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR. 

Mrs.  Aphra  Behn  (See  Introductory  Notice  to  Pretentious  Young 
Ladies,  Vol.  I.,  has,  in  Sir  Patient  Fancy — an  imitation,  partly  of  Mo- 
lifere's  Malade  Imaginaire,  and  of  M.  de  Pourceaugnac ,  and  acted  at  the 
Duke's  Theatre,  1678 — borrowed  and  amplified  all  the  scenes  of  Love  is 
the  best  Doctor,  in  which  the  physicians  consult.  But  the  patient  to  be 
cured  is  a  hypochondriac,  and  not  a  young  girl ;  Sir  Patience  himself  is 
present  at  the  consultation,  and  the  doctors'  names  are  also  altered  to 
Turboon,  Amsterdam,  Leyden,  Brunswick,  and  Sir  Credulous. 

As  a  second  imitation  of  Love  is  the  best  Doctor  I  have  to  mention 
"  The  Quacks,  or  Love's  the  Physician,  as  it  was  acted  (after  being  twice 
forbid)  at  the  Theatre-Royal  in  Drury  Lane  (March  i8th,  1705),  by  Mr. 
Swiney.  Quod  libet,  licet.  London,  Printed  for  Benj.  Bragg,  at  the 
Blew  Ball  in  Avemary  Lane,  1705."  In  the  Preface,  Swiney  states  that 
"  this  Play  was  to  be  stifled  because  the  other  House  were  to  Act  one 
upon  the  same  Subject,"  and  that  "  the  hints  of  this  Play  were  taken  from 
a  petit  piece  of  Mohfere  call'd  L'Amour  Medecin,"  but  "  I  can't  stile  it  a 
translation,  the  Doctor's  part  being  intirely  new,  much  of  the  other  cha- 
racters alter'd,  and  the  Contrivance  somewhat  Chang'd."  He  ends  by 
saying  that  "  the  Noise  of  these  Scenes  Alarm'd  the  Licenser,  who  gen-, 
erally  destroys  with  as  much  Distinction  as  the  old  Woman  in  Don  Quix- 
ot's  Library."  Swiney  harps  on  the  same  string  in  the  Prologue,  by 
saying: 

"  Let  every  Quack  be  comforted  to-Night, 
Care  has  been  taken  that  he  shall  not  Bite." 

The  play  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  bad  translation  of  Moliere's  play,  with 
a  few  alterations  and  additions  which  do  not  improve  it.  The  scene  of 
Sganarelle  and  his  advisers  is  left  out ;  while  a  nurse  and  two  servant-men, 
Harry  and  Edward,  are  needlessly  introduced.  The  doctors'  names  are 
changed  into  Medley,  Caudle,  Tickle,  Pulse,  Novice,  Refugee,  and  the 
conversation  is  slightly  altered.  In  the  end,  Clitandre  and  Lucinda,  who 
have  been  really  married  by  a  priest  disguised  as  a  footman,  acknowledge 
their  deceit,  and  are  forgiven. 

James  Miller  (See  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Pretentious  Young 
Ladies,  Vol.  I.,  wrote  a  comedy.  Art  and  Nature,  acted  at  the  Theatre 
Royal,  Drury  Lane,  1738  ;  and  according  to  Baker's  Biographia  Drama- 
tica,  the  principal  scenes  in  this  play  are  founded  on  the  Arlequin  Sauvage 
of  M.  De  risle  and  Le  Flatteur  of  Rousseau.  But  it  met  with  no  suc- 
cess, because  the  Templars  had  taken  an  unreasonable  prejudice  against 
Miller,  on  account  of  his  farce  of  The  Coffee  House,  in  which  they  thought 
themselves  attacked,  and  seem  to  have  been  determined  to  condemn  any 
piece  knovm  to  be  his.  Miller  has  imitated  the^rst,  second,  fifth,  and 
sixth  scenes  of  the  first  act  of  Love  is  the  best  Doctor.  In  his  Preface  to 
the  Right  Honourable  the  Lady.  .  .  .  Miller  states,  "  that  he  never  knew 

a  Play  destroy'd  with  so  much  Art But  in  Paris  there  is  an  Academy 

founded  for  the  Encouragement  of  Wit  and  Learning,  so  in  London,  it  is 
said,  there  is  a  Society  established  for  the  Demolition  of  them."  He  also 
says  in  the  Prologue,  that  he  hopes  there  is  none  in  the  theatre,  *'  who'd 
aim.  Thro'  Wantonness  of  Heart,  to  blast  his  Fame." 

Another  translation  of  Moliere's  play,  under  the  title  of  Love  is  the 
Doctor,  was  performed  as  a  comedy  in  one  act,  at  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
on  April  4,  1734,  for  the  benefit  of  the  author,  but  has  never  been  printed. 

Bickerstaffe  (See  Introductory  Notice  to  The  School  for  Wives,  Vol. 
I.,  in  Dr.  Last  in  his  Chariot — an  imitation  of  Moliere's  Malade  Im- 


LOVE   IS  THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  I4I 

aginaire,  acted  at  the  Haymarket,  1769 — acknowledges  his  obligation  to 
Mr.  Foote  for  a  whole  scene  in  the  first  act,  the  consultation  of  the  physi- 
cians. This  acknowledgment  is  certainly  a  proof  of  Bickerstaffe's  grati- 
tude, but  none  of  his  reading ;  otherwise  he  might  have  discovered  that 
Foote  had  simply  taken  it  from  Moli^re's  Love  is  the  best  Doctor,  and 
considerably  enlarged  it ;  the  doctors  are  called  Cofl&n,  Skeleton,  Bul- 
ruddery,  and  of  course  Doctor  Last 


TO  THE  READER. 


This  is  only  a  slight  impromptu,  a  simple  pencil  sketch,  which 
it  has  pleased  the  King  to  have  made  into  an  entertainment. 
It  is  the  most  hastily  composed  of  all  those  written  by  order  of 
his  Majesty ;  and  when  I  say  that  it  was  sketched,  written, 
learned,  and  acted  in  five  days,  I  shall  only  be  speaking  the 
truth.  There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  that  many  things  depend 
entirely  on  the  manner  of  the  performance.  Every  one  knows 
well  enough  that  comedies  are  written  only  to  be  acted ;  and  I 
advise  no  one  to  read  this,  unless  he  have  the  faculty,  while 
doing  so,  of  catching  the  meaning  of  the  business  of  the  stage. 
I  shall  say  only  one  thing  more,  that  it  is  to  be  wished  that 
these  sorts  of  works  could  always  be  shown  with  the  same 
accessories,  with  which  they  are  accompanied  when  played 
before  the  King.  One  would  then  see  them  under  much  more 
agreeable  conditions  ;  and  the  airs  and  symphonies  of  the  in- 
comparable M.  Lulli,  added  to  the  sweet  voices  and  agility  of 
the  dancers,  invest  them,  undoubtedly,  with  certain  graces, 
with  which  they  could  with  difficulty  dispense. 


143 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 


IN   THE    PROLOGUE. 

Comedy.      |      Music.      |      The  Ballet  {Dancing). 

IN  THE   comedy. 


Sganarelle,  father  to  Lu- 

cinde? 
Clitandre,  in  love  tvith  Lu- 

cinde. 
M.    GuiLLAUME,    dealer    in 

hangings. 
M.  JossE,  goldsmith. 
M.  Tomes,  a  physician. 

M.   DESFONANDRi;S,  ** 

M.  Macroton,        ** 
M.  Bahis,  " 


M.  Filerin,  physician. 

A  Notary. 

Champagne,  Sganarelle^ s 
servant. 

Lucinde,  daughter  of  Sgan- 
arelle. 

Aminta,  Sganarelle' s  neigh- 
bour. 

LucRETiA,  Sganarelle' s  niece. 

LiSETTE,  maid  to  Lucinde. 


IN  THE   ballet. 


First  Entry. 
Champagne,  Sganarelle' s 

servant,  dancing. 
Four  Physicians, 

dancing. 


Second  Entry. 

A  Quack,  singing. 

Trivelins  and  Scaramou- 
ches,* dancing  in  the  suite 
of  the  quack. 


Third  Entry. 

Comedy.  |         Music.  |      The  Ballet. 

Sports,  Laughter,  and  Pleasures,  dancing. 

Scene. — Paris,  in  one  of  the  Rooms  op  Sganarelle' s 
House. 

'  It  is  more  than  probable  that  Moliere  played  this  part.  In  the  inventory  taken 
after  his  death,  and  given  by  M.  E.  Soulie,  we  find,  "  a  box  of  clothes  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  the  Medecins, — for  this  was  the  name  often  given  to  Love  is  the  best 
Doctor  by  Moliere's  contemporaries, — consisting  in  a  doublet  of  common  satin,  cut 
out  on  golden  roc  (sic),  cloak  and  breeches  of  velvet,  with  a  gold  ground,  adorned 
with  a  loop  and  buttons." 

*  Tibeno  Fiorilli,  an  Italian  actor,  was  bom  near  Naples,  in  1608,  and  died  at 
Paris,  on  the  8th  of  December,  1694.  He  was  much  liked  by  Louis  XIV.,  and 
acted  the  character  of  Scaramouch,  a  braggart,  a  poltroon,  and  a  fool,  always 
dressed  in  black,  with  a  large  white  collar.  In  Italian,  a  skirmish  is  called  scarra- 
tnuccia ;  hence  perhaps  the  name.  Isaac  Disraeli  in  his  excellent  chapter  "  The 
Pantomimical  Characters  "  in  the  Curiosities  of  Literature ,  says  :  "  When  Charles 
V.  entered  Italy,  a  Spanish  captain  was  introduced ;  a  dreadful  man  he  was  too,  tf 
we  are  to  be  frightened  by  names  :  Sangre  e  Fuego  !  and  Matamoro  I  His  busi- 
ness was  to  deal  in  Spanish  rhodomontades,  to  kick  out  the  native  Italian  Capitan, 
in  compliment  to  the  Spaniards,  and  then  to  take  a  quiet  caning  from  Harlequin, 
in  compliment  to  themselves.  When  the  Spaniards  lost  their  influencein  Italy, 
the  Spanish  Captain  was  turned  into  Scaramouch,  who  still  wore  the  Spanish  dress, 
and  was  perpetually  in  a  panic.  The  Italians  could  only  aYeoge  themselves  on  the 
Spaniards  in  pantomime. 


LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR. 

{U AMOUR  m£:decin.) 


PROLOGUE. 

Comedy,  Music,  The  Ballet. 
Comedy.  Let  us  our  fruitless  quarrels  banish, 

Each  other's  talents  not  by  turns  dispute: 
But  greater  glory  to  attain 
This  day  of  all  let  be  our  aim. 
Let  us  all  three  unite  with  matchless  zeal 
The  greatest  King  on  earth  with  pleasure  to 
provide. 

The  three  together.  Let  us  all  three  uftite  with  matchless 
zeal 
The  greatest    King   on   earth  with 
pleasure  to  provide. 

Comedy.  From  toils  more  irksome  than  can  be  imagined, 
Amongst  tis,  now  and  then,  he  comes  to  un- 
bend, 
Can   greater  glory,    greater   pleasure  be  our 
share  ? 

The  three  together.  Let  us  all  three  unite  with  matchless 
zeal 
The   greatest    King   on   earth   with 
pleasure  to  provide.* 

'  The  Prologue  is  in  the  original  in  verse. 


148  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  i. 

ACT   I. 

Scene  I. — Sganarelle,  Aminta,  Lucretia,  M.  Guil- 

LAUME,    M.    JOSSE. 

Scan.  What  a  strange  thing  is  life  !  and  well  may  I 
say  with  a  great  ancient  philosopher,  that  he  who  has 
much  land  has  also  strife,®  and  misfortune  seldom  comes 
alone.     I  had  but  one  wife,  and  she  is  dead. 

M.  Gu.  And,  pray,  how  many  would  you  have  ? 

Scan.  She  is  dead,  friend  Guillaume.  I  take  this  loss 
very  much  to  heart,  and  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  tears. 
I  was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  her  behaviour,  and  we 
often  quarrelled  ;  but,  after  all,  death  settles  everything. 
She  is  dead  ;  I  bewail  her.  If  she  were  alive,  we  would 
very  likely  quarrel.  Of  all  the  children  God  sent  me,  He 
has  left  me  but  one  daughter,  and  it  is  she  who  is  the 
cause  of  all  my  trouble  ;  for  I  see  her  plunged  in  the  most 
dismal  melancholy,  the  greatest  sadness,  of  which  there  is 
no  way  of  getting  rid,  and  the  cause  of  which  I  cannot 
even  learn.  I  declare  I  am  at  my  wit's  end,  and  am  very 
much  in  want  of  good  advice  about  it.  {To  Lucretia). 
You  are  my  niece  ;  (  To  Aminta),  you  my  neighbour ;  (  To 
M.  Guillaume  and  M.  Josse),  you  my  companions  and 
friends  :  tell  me,  I  pray,  what  I  am  to  do. 

M.  Jo.  As  for  me,  I  think  that  finery  and  dress  are  the 
things  which  please  young  girls  most ;  and  if  I  were  you, 
I  should  buy  her,  this  very  day,  a  handsome  set  of  dia- 
monds, or  rubies,  or  emeralds. 

M.  Gu.  And  I,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  I  would  buy  her 
a  beautiful  set  of  hangings,  with  a  landscape,  or  some 
figures  in  them,  and  I  should  have  them  hung  up  in  her 
room  to  cheer  her  spirits  and  to  please  her  eyes. 

Amin.  As  for  me,  I  would  not  take  so  much  trouble ;  I 
would  marry  her  well,  and  as  quickly  as  I  could,  to  that 
young  man  who  asked  her  hand  some  time  ago,  as  I  have 
been  told. 

Luc.  And  I,  I  think  your  daughter  is  not  at  all  fit  to 

•  It  was  not  an  ancient  philosopher  who  said  this.  It  is  simply  a  wise 
saw  of  the  Middle  Ages,  common  to  the  French  and  the  Italians,  qui  terre 
a  guerre  a  and  chi  compra  terra  compra  terra  compra  guerra. 


scKNBii.]  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  I49 

be  married.  She  has  too  delicate  and  unhealthy  a  consti- 
tution, and  it  is  almost  sending  her  wilfully  and  speedily 
to  the  next  world,  to  expose  her  to  bear  children  in  the 
state  she  is  in.  The  busy  world  does  not  suit  her  at  all, 
and  I  would  advise  you  to  put  her  in  a  convent,  where  she 
will  find  some  amusements  more  to  her  taste. 

Scan.  All  this  advice  is  certainly  admirable,  but  I  think 
it  rather  interested,  and  I  find  that  you  are  giving  it  very 
much  for  your  own  benefit.  You  are  a  goldsmith, 
M.  Josse ;  and  your  advice  savours  of  a  man  who  wants 
to  get  rid  of  his  wares.  You  sell  hangings,  M.  Guillaume, 
and  you  look  to  me  as  if  you  had  some  which  you  would 
fain  part  with.  The  young  man  whom  you  are  in  love 
with,  fair  neighbour,  is,  I  have  been  told,  the  very  one 
who  is  somewhat  favourably  disposed  towards  my 
daughter ;  and  you  would  not  be  sorry  to  see  her  the 
wife  of  another.  And  as  for  you,  my  dear  niece,  it  is  not 
my  intention,  as  is  well  known,  to  allow  my  daughter  to 
get  married  at  all,  for  reasons  best  known  to  myself ;  but 
your  advice  to  make  a  nun  of  her  is  that  Of  a  woman  who 
might  charitably  wish  to  become  my  sole  heiress.  There- 
fore, ladies  and  gentlemen,  although  your  counsels  be  the 
best  in  the  world,  with  your  permission,  I  shall  not  follow 
a  single  one  of  them.  (Alone).  So  much  for  those  fash- 
ionable advisers. 

Scene  II. — Lucinde,  Sganarelle. 

Scan.  Ah,  here  is  my  daughter  come  to  take  a  breath 
of  air.  She  does  not  see  me.  She  is  sighing ;  she  looks 
up  to  the  sky.  {To  Lucinde).  May  Heaven  protect  you  ! 
Good  morning,  my  darling.  Well,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
How  do  you  feel  ?  What !  always  so  sad  and  so  melan- 
choly, and  you  will  not  tell  me  what  ails  you  ?  Come, 
open  your  little  heart  to  me.  There,  my  poor  pet,  come 
and  tell  your  little  thoughts  to  your  little  fond  papa. 
Keep  your  spirits  up.  Let  me  give  you  a  kiss.  Come. 
(Aside).  It  makes  me  wild  to  see  her  in  that  humour. 
(To  Lucinde).  But  tell  me,  do  you  wish  to  kill  me  with 
displeasure ;  and  am  I  not  to  know  the  reason  of  this  great 
listlessness  ?  Tell  me  the  cause,  and  I  promise  that  I 
shall  do  everything  for  you.     Yes,  if  you  will  only  tell  me 


150  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  i. 

why  you  are  so  sad,  I  assure  you  and  swear  on  this  very 
spot,  that  I  shall  leave  nothing  undone  to  please  you ;  I 
cannot  say  more.  Are  you  jealous  because  one  of  your 
companions  is  better  dressed  than  yourself,  and  is  it  some 
new-fashioned  stuff  of  which  you  want  a  dress  ?  No.  Is 
your  room  not  furnished  nicely  enough,  and  do  you  wish 
for  one  of  those  cabinets  from  St.  Laurent's  Fair?'  It  is 
not  that.  Do  you  feel  inclined  to  take  lessons  in  some- 
thing, and  shall  I  get  you  a  master  to  teach  you  how  to 
play  upon  the  harpsichord  ?  No,  not  that  either.  Are 
you  in  love  with  some  one,  and  do  you  wish  to  be  mar- 
ried ?     {Lucinde  gives  an  affirmative  sign). 

Scene  III. — Sganarelle,  Lucinde,  Lisette. 

Lis.  Well,  sir,  you  have  just  been  talking  to  your 
daughter.  Have  you  found  out  the  cause  of  her  melan- 
choly*? 

Scan.  No.     She  is  a  hussy  who  enrages  me. 

Lis.  Let  me  manage  it,  sir  ;  I  shall  pump  her  a  little. 

Scan.  There  is  no  occasion ;  and  since  she  prefers  to 
be  in  this  mood,  I  am  inclined  to  let  her  remain  in  it. 

Lis.  Let  me  manage  it,  I  tell  you.  Perhaps  she  will 
open  her  heart  more  freely  to  me  than  to  you.  How  now  ! 
Madam,®  you  will  not  tell  us  what  ails  you,  and  you  wish 
to  grieve  everyone  around  you  ?  You  ought  not  to  be- 
have as  you  do,  and  if  you  have  any  objection  to  explain 
yourself  to  a  father,  you  ought  to  have  none  to  open 
your  heart  to  me.  Tell  me,  do  you  wish  anything  from 
him  ?  He  has  told  us  more  than  once  that  he  will  spare 
nothing  to  satisfy  you.     Does  he  not  allow  you  all  the 

''  In  Le  Tracas  de  Paris,  the  Hubbub  of  Paris,  described  in  buriesque 
verses  by  F.  Colletet,  written  in  1665,  and  re-edited  by  the  Bibliophile 
Jacob  in  1859,  I  find  a  long  and  not  very  poetical  description  of 
this  fair,  which  seems  to  have  been  frequented,  if  not  by  bad,  at 
least  by  very  mixed  company.  Formerly  this  fair  lasted  only  eight 
days,  then  three  weeks  and  finally  three  months ;  it  was  probably  held 
in  Moli^re's  time  where  the  church  St.  Laurent  is  now,  Boulevard  de 
Strassbourg. 

8  Lisette  addresses  Lucinde  as  "  Madam "  in  the  presence  of  her 
fether.  This  seems  to  me  to  be  ironical,  as  Madam  was  used  only 
in  speaking  to  ladies  of  high  nobility.  When  later,  in  Clitandre,  the 
lover  calls  her  by  that  same  name,  it  appears  to  me  to  be  done  as  a  piece 
of  flattery. 


SCKNBIU.]  LOVE   IS   THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  I51 

freedom  you  could  wish  for?  And  do  pleasure  parties 
and  feasts  not  tempt  you  ?  Say !  has  anyone  displeased 
you?  Say!  have  you  not  some  secret  liking  for  some  one 
to  whom  you  would  wish  your  father  to  marry  you? 
Ah !  I  begin  to  understand  you ;  that  is  it  ?  Why  the 
deuce  so  many  compliments?  Sir,  the  secret  is  found 
out,  and  .    .    . 

Scan.  {Interrupting  her).  Go,  ungrateful  girl ;  I  do 
not  wish  to  speak  to  you  any  more,  and  I  leave  you  in 
your  obstinacy. 

Luc.  Dear  father,  since  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  .    .    . 

Scan.  Yes,  I  am  losing  all  my  regard  for  you. 

Lis    Her  sadness,  sir  .    .    . 

Scan.  She  is  a  hussy  who  wishes  to  drive  me  to  my 
grave. 

Luc.  But,  father,  I  am  willing  .    .    . 

Scan.  That  is  not  a  fit  reward  for  having  brought'  you 
up  as  I  have  done. 

Lis.  But,  sir  .    .    . 

Sgan.  No,  I  am  in  a  terrible  rage  with  her. 

Luc.  But,  father  .    .    . 

Sgan.  I  do  not  love  you  any  longer. 

Lis.  But  .   . 

Sgan.  She  is  a  slut. 

Luc.   But  .   .   . 

Sgan.  An  ungrateful  girl. 

Lis.  But  .    .    . 

Sgan.  A  hussy  who  will  not  tell  me  what  is  the  matter 
with  her. 

Lis.  It  is  a  husband  she  wants. 

Sgan.  {Pretending  not  to  hear).     I  have  done  with  her. 

Lis.  a  husband. 

Sgan.  I  hate  her. 

Lis.  a  husband. 

Sgan.  And  disown  her  as  my  daughter. 

Lis.  a  husband. 

Sgan.  Do  not  speak  to  me  any  more  about  her. 

Lis.  a  husband. 

Sgan.  Speak  no  more  to  me  about  her. 

Lis.  a  husband. 

Sgan.  Speak  no  more  to  me  about  her. 


152  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST   DOCTOR.  [act  x. 

Lis.  a  husband,  a  husband,  a  husband. 

Scene  IV. — Lucinde,  Lisette. 

Lis.  True  enough,  none  so  deaf  as  those  who  will  not 
hear. 

Luc.  Well,  Lisette,  I  was  wrong  to  hide  my  grief !  I 
had  but  to  speak  to  get  all  I  wished  from  my  father !  You 
see  now. 

Lis.  Upon  my  word,  he  is  a  disagreeable  man  ;  and  I 
confess  that  it  would  give  me  the  greatest  pleasure  to  play 
him  some  trick.  But  how  is  it.  Madam,  that,  till  now, 
you  have  kept  your  grief  from  me  ? 

Luc.  Alas !  what  would  have  been  the  use  of  telling  you 
before?  and  would  it  not  have  been  quite  as  well  if  I 
had  kept  it  to  myself  all  my  life  ?  Do  you  think  that  I 
have  not  foreseen  all  which  you  see  now,  that  I  did  not 
thoroughly  know  the  sentiments  of  my  father,  and  that 
when  he  refused  my  hand  to  my  lover's  friend,  who  came 
to  ask  for  it  in  his  name,  he  had  not  crushed  every  hope 
in  my  heart  ? 

Lis.  What !  this  stranger,  who  asked  for  your  hand,  is 
the  one  whom  you  .    .    . 

Luc.  Perhaps  it  is  not  altogether  modest  in  a  girl  to 
explain  herself  so  freely;  but,  in  short,  I  tell  you  candidly, 
that,  were  I  allowed  to  wish  for  any  one,  it  is  he  whom  I 
should  choose.  We  have  never  had  any  conversation 
together,  and  his  lips  have  never  avowed  the  love  he  has 
for  me;  but,  in  every  spot  where  he  had  a  chance  of 
seeing  me,  his  looks  and  his  actions  have  always  spoken  so 
tenderly,  and  his  asking  me  in  marriage  seems  to  me  so 
very  honourable,  that  my  heart  has  not  been  able  to  remain 
insensible  to  his  passion  ;  and  yet,  you  see  to  what  the 
harshness  of  my  father  is  likely  to  bring  all  this  tenderness. 

Lis.  Let  me  manage  it.  Whatever  reason  I  have  to 
blame  you  for  the  secret  you  kept  from  me,  I  shall  not  fail 
to  serve  your  love;  and,  provided  you  have  sufficient 
resolution  .    .    . 

Luc.  But  what  am  I  to  do  against  a  father's  authority? 
And  if  he  will  not  relent  .    .    . 

Lis.  Come,  come,  you  must  not  allow  yourself  to  be  led 
like  a  goose,  and  provided  it  be  done  honourably,  we  can 


scKNKVi.]  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  1 53 

free  ourselves  from  a  father's  tyranny.  What  does  he  wish 
you  to  do  ?  Are  you  not  of  an  age  to  be  married,  and 
does  he  think  you  are  made  of  marble  ?  Once  more  bear 
up,  I  shall  take  in  hand  your  love  affair,  and  from  this 
very  moment  do  all  I  can  to  favour  it,  and  you  shall  see 
that  I  know  some  stratagems  .  .  .  But  I  see  your  father. 
Let  us  go  in,  and  leave  me  to  act. 

Scene  V. — Sganarelle,  alone. 
It  is  good  sometimes  to  pretend  not  to  hear  things, 
which  one  hears  only  too  well ;  and  I  have  done  wisely 
to  ward  off  the  declaration  of  a  wish  which  I  have  no 
intention  of  satisfying.  Was  there  ever  a  greater  piece  of 
tyranny  than  this  custom  to  which  they  wish  to  subject  all 
fathers ;  anything  more  preposterous  and  ridiculous  than 
to  amass  great  wealth  by  hard  work,  and  to  bring  up  a  girl 
with  the  utmost  tenderness  and  care,  in  order  to  strip  one's 
self  of  the  one  and  of  the  other,  for  the  benefit  of  a  man 
who  is  nothing  to  us  ?  No,  no,  I  laugh  at  that  custom, 
and  I  mean  to  keep  my  wealth  and  my  daughter  to  myself. 

Scene  VI. — Sganarelle,  Lisette, 

Lis.  (^Running  on  to  the  stage  and  pretending  not  to  see 
Sganarelle).  Oh !  what  a  misfortune !  Oh !  what  a  ca- 
lamity !     Poor  Mr.  Sganarelle  !  where  can  I  find  him  ? 

Sgan.  {Aside).     What  does  she  say? 

Lis.  (Still  running  about).  Oh!  wretched  father !  what 
will  you  do  when  you  hear  this  news  ? 

Sgan.  {Aside).     What  can  it  be  ? 

Lis.  My  poor  mistress ! 

Sgan.  I  am  undone  ! 

Lis.  Ah! 

Sgan.  {Running  after  Lisette).     Lisette ! 

Lis.  What  a  misfortune ! 

Sgan.  Lisette ! 

Lis.  What  an  accident! 

Sgan.  Lisette  ! 

Lis.  What  a  calamity  ! 

Sgan.  Lisette! 

Lis.  Oh,  Sir! 

Sgan.  What  is  the  matter? 


154  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  hi. 

Lis.  Sir! 

Scan.  What  has  happened  ? 

Lis.  Your  daughter  ..." 

Scan.  Oh!  Oh! 

Lis.  Do  not  cry  in  such  a  way,  sir.  You  will  make  me 
laugh. 

Scan.  Tell  me  quickly. 

Lis.  Your  daughter,  overcome  by  your  words,  and  see- 
ing how  dreadfully  angry  you  were  with  her,  went  quietly 
up  to  her  room,  and,  driven  by  despair,  opened  the  win- 
dow that  looks  out  upon  the  river. 

Scan.  Well! 

Lis.  Then,  casting  her  looks  up  to  Heaven  :  No,  said 
she,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  live  under  my  father's  anger, 
and  as  he  disowns  me  for  his  child,  I  shall  die. 

Scan.  She  has  thrown  herself  out  of  the  window? 

Lis.  No,  sir.  She  gently  closed  it,  and  lay  down  upon 
her  bed.  There  she  began  to  cry  bitterly  ;  all  at  once  she 
turned  pale,  her  eyes  rolled  about,  her  strength  failed  her, 
and  she  became  stiff  in  my  arms. 

Scan.  Oh,  my  child  !     She  is  dead  ? 

Lis.  No,  sir,  I  pinched  her  till  she  came  to  herself 
again ;  but  she  relapses  every  moment,  and  I  believe  she 
will  not  live  out  the  day. 

Sgan.  Champagne  !  Champagne !  Champagne  ! 

Scene  VIL — Sganarelle,  Champagne,  Lisette. 

Sgan.  Quick,  go  and  fetch  me  some  doctors,  and  bring 
a  lot  of  them.^°  One  cannot  have  too  many  in  a  crisis  like 
this.     Oh  my  daughter  !  my  poor  child  ! 

first  entry." 

Champagne,  servant  to  Sganarelle,  knocks,  dancing,  at 
the  doors  of  four  Physicians. 

•Moli^re  has  also  employed  the  beginning  of  this  scene  in  The 
Rogueries  of  Scapin.     (See  Vol.  III.) 

^o  Comjiare  Shakespeare's  Second  Part  of  King  Henry  IV.  (Act  ii., 
Scene  i),  when  Fang,  being  kept  off  by  Falstaff  and  Bardolph,  shouts 
'*  A  rescue!  a  rescue  !  "  and  Hostess  quickly  exclaims,  "Good  people, 
bring  a  rescue  or  two  t" 

"  The  original  has  entre-actre,  which  might  perhaps  have  been 
translated  by  "  interlude.'* 


scsmiii.]  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  I55 

The  four  Physicians  dance,  and  ceremoniously  enter  into 
Sganarelle"  s  house. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Sganarelle,  Lisette. 

Lis.  What  do  you  want  with  four  physicians,  sir?  Is 
one  not  enough  to  kill  one  person? 

Scan.  Hold  your  tongue.  Four  heads  are  better  than 
one. 

Lis.  Cannot  your  daughter  die  well  enough  without 
the  assistance  of  those  gentlemen  ? 

Sgan.  Do  you  think  people  die  through  having  physi- 
cians ? 

Lis.  Undoubtedly ;  and  I  knew  a  man  who  maintained 
— and  proved  it,  too,  by  excellent  reasons — that  we  should 
never  say,  Such  a  one  has  died  of  a  fever,  or  from  inflam- 
mation of  the  lungs,  but.  Such  a  one  has  died  of  four 
physicians  and  two  apothecaries. 

Sgan.  Hush  !  do  not  offend  those  gentlemen. 

Lis.  Upon  my  word,  sir,  our  cat  had  a  narrow  escape 
from  a  leap  he  took,  a  little  while  ago,  from  the  top  of 
the  house  into  the  street;  he  was  three  days  without 
eating,  and  unable  to  wag  head  or  foot ',  but  it  is  very 
lucky  that  there  are  no  cat  doctors,  else  it  would  have 
been  all  over  with  him,  for  they  would  have  physicked 
and  bled  him. 

Sgan.  Will  you  hold  your  tongue  when  I  bid  you? 
What  next  !     Here  they  are. 

Lis.  Look  out ;  you  are  going  to  be  finely  edified. 
They  will  tell  you  in  Latin  that  your  daughter  is  ill. 

Scene  II. — MM.  Tomes,  Desfonandres,  Macroton, 
Bahis,  Sganarele,e,  Lisette.  > 

Sgan.  Well,  gentlemen  ? 

M.  To.  We  have  examined  the  patient  sufficiently,  and 
undoubtedly  there  is  a  great  deal  of  impurity  in  her. 
Sgan.  Is  my  daughter  impure  ? 

M.  To.  I  mean  to  say  that  there  is  a  great  deal  of  im- 
purity in  her  system,  and  much  corrupt  matter. 


l$6  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  ii. 

Scan.  Ah  !  I  understand  you  now. 

M.  To.  But  .    .    .  We  are  going  to  consult  together. 

Scan.  Come,  hand  some  chairs. 

Lis.  (To  M.  Tomes).    Ah  !  sir,  are  you  with  them  ? 

Scan.  (71?  Lisette).  How  do  you  know  this  gentle- 
man? 

Lis.  From  having  seen  him  the  other  day  at  a  dear 
friend's  of  your  niece. 

M.  To.  How  is  her  coachman  ? 

Lis.  Very  well  indeed.     He  is  dead. 

M.  To.  Dead? 

Lis.  Yes. 

M.  To.  That  cannot  be. 

Lis.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  can  be  or  not ;  but  I 
know  well  enough  that  it  is. 

M.  To.  He  cannot  be  dead,  I  tell  you. 
'  Lis.  And  I  tell  you  that  he  is  dead  and  buried. 

M.  To.  You  are  mistaken. 

Lis.  I  have  seen  him. 

M.  To.  It  is  impossible.  Hippocrates  says  that  these 
sorts  of  diseases  end  only  on  the  fourteenth  or  twenty-first 
day ;  and  he  has  been  ill  only  six. 

Lis.  Hippocrates  may  say  what  he  likes;  but  the 
coachman  is  dead. 

Scan.  Peace !  chatterbox.  Come,  let  us  leave  this 
room.  Gentlemen,  I  pray  you  to  consult  carefully.  Al- 
though it  is  not  the  custom  to  pay  beforehand,  yet,  for 
fear  I  should  forget  it,  and  to  have  done  with  it,  here 
is  .    .    .  {He  hands  them  some  money,  and  each  one,  on 

{receiving  ity  makes  a  different  gesture.^ 

Scene  IIL — MM.  DESFONANDRfes,  Tomes,  Macroton, 
Bahis.      {TJiey  all  sit  down  and  begin  to  cough). 

M.  Des.  Paris  is  marvellously  large,  and  one  has  to 
take  long  journeys  when  business  is  a  little  brisk, 

M.  To.  I  am  glad  to  say  that  I  have  got  a  wonderful 
mule  for  that ;  and  that  one  would  hardly  believe  what  a 
deal  of  ground  he  takes  me  over  daily. 

M.  Des.  I  have  got  an  astonishing  horse,  and  it  is  an 
indefatigable  animal. 

M.  To.  Do  you  know  the  ground  my  mule  has  been 


SCENE  in]  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  1 57 

over  to-day?  I  have  been,  first,  close  by  the  Arsenal;  from 
the  Arsenal,  to  the  end  of  the  faubourg  Saint  Germain ; 
from  the  faubourg  Saint  Germain,  to  the  lower  part  of  the 
Marais ;  from  the  lower  part  of  the  Marais,  to  the  Porte 
Saint-Honor6;  from  the  Porte  Saint-Honor6,  to  the  fau- 
bourg Saint-Jacques ;  from  the  faubourg  Saint-Jacques,  to 
the  Porte  de  Richelieu ;  from  the  Porte  de  Richelieu,  here ; 
and  from  here,  I  have  yet  to  go  to  the  Place  Royale." 

M.  Des.  My  horse  has  done  all  that  to-day;  and, 
besides,  I  have  been  to  see  a  patient  at  Ruel." 

M.  To.  But,  by  the  bye,  which  side  do  you  take  in  the 
quarre  1  between  the  two  physicians  Theophrastus  and 
Artemius?  for  it  is  a  matter  that  divides  our  profession. 

M.   Des.  I  ?   I  am  for  Artemius. 

M.  To.  So  am  I.  It  is  true  that  his  advice  killed  the 
patient,  as  we  have  experienced,  and  that  Theophrastus' s 
was  certainly  much  better;  but  the  latter  is  wrong  in  the 
circumstances,  and  ought  not  to  have  been  of  a  different 
opinion  from  his  senior.     What  do  you  say? 

M.  Des.  Certainly.  We  ought  at  all  times  to  preserve 
the  professional  etiquette,  whatever  may  happen. 

M.  To.  For  my  part,  I  am  excessively  strict  on  that 
subject,  except  among  friends.  The  other  day  three  of 
us  were  called  in  to  to  consult  with  an  outsider;"  but  I 
stopped  the  whole  affair,  and  would  hold  no  consultation 
unless  things  were  conducted  according  to  etiquette.  The 
people  of  the  house  did  what  they  could  and  the  case  grew 
worse ;  but  I  would  not  give  way,  and  the  patient  bravely 
died  during  the  contention. 

M.  Des.  It  is  highly  proper  to  teach  people  how  to 
behave,  and  to  show  them  their  inexperience," 

M.  To.  A  dead  man  is  but  a  dead  man,  and  of  very 
little  consequence;  but  professional  etiquette  neglected 
does  great  harm  to  the  whole  body  of  physicians. 

1*  M.  TomSs  states,  in  detail,  that  he  has  been  from  one  end  of  Paris  to 
the  other. 

1'  Ruel,  a  village  on  the  road  to  Saint  Germain,  was  at  that  time 
'1665)  a  very  fashionable  residence ;  the  Cardinal  de  Richelieu  had  a 
country  seat  there,  under  Louis  XIII. 

**  A  physician,  who  had  not  taken  his  degree  in  Paris,  was  called  "  an 
outsider,"  un  medecin  de  dehors. 

^*  The  original  has  leur  montrer  leur  bee  jaune. 


158  LOVE   IS   THE    BEST    DOCTOR.  [act  u. 

Scene  IV. — Sganarelle,  MM.  Tomes,  DESFONANDRis, 
Macroton,  Bahis. 

Scan.  Gentlemen,  my  daughter  is  growing  worse ;  I 
beg  you  to  tell  me  quickly  what  you  have  decided  on. 

M.  To.  {To  M Desfonandres).  The  word  is  with  you,  Sir. 

M.  Des.  No,  Sir ;  it  is  for  you  to  speak  if  you  please. 

M,  To.   You  are  jesting. 

M.  Des.  I  shall  not  speak  first. 

M.  To.     Sir. 

M.  Des.  Sir. 

Sgan.  For  mercy's  sake,  gentlemen,  drop  these  cere- 
monies, and  consider  that  matters  are  urgent. 

{They  all  four  speak  at  the  same  time.^ 

M.  To.  Your  daughter's  complaint  .    .    . 

M.  Des.  The  opinion  of  all  these  gentlemen  .    .    . 

Mac.  M.  After  hav-ing  care-fully  consi-dered  .    .    . 

M.  Ba.  In  order  to  deduce  .    .    . 

Sgan.  Ah!  gentlemen,  one  at  a  time,  pray  .    .    . 

M.  To.  Sir,  we  have  duly  argued  upon  your  daughter's 
complaint,  and  my  own  opinion  is,  that  it  proceeds  from 
the  overheating  of  the  blood,  consequently  I  would  have 
her  bled  as  soon  as  possible. 

M.  Des.  And  I  say  that  her  illness  arises  from  a  putre- 
faction of  humours,  caused  by  too  great  repletion ;  conse- 
quently I  would  have  her  given  an  emetic. 

M.  To.    I  maintain  that  an  emetic  will  kill  her. 

M.  Des.  And  I,  that  bleeding  will  be  the  death  of  her. 

M.  To.    It  is  like  you  to  set  up  for  a  clever  man ! 

M.  Des.  Yes,  it  is  like  me ;  and  I  can,  at  any  rate,  cope 
with  you  in  all  kinds  of  knowledge. 

M.  To.  Do  you  recollect  the  man  you  killed  a  few  days 
ago? 

M.  Des.  Do  you  recollect  the  lady  you  sent  to  the  other 
world  three  days  ago  ? 

M.  To.    {To  Sganarelle^.  I  have  given  you  my  opinion. 

M.  Des.  {To Sganarelle).  I  have  told  you  what  I  think. 

M.  To.  If  you  do  not  have  your  daughter  bled  directly, 
she  is  a  dead  woman.  {Exit. 

M.  Des.  If  you  have  her  bled,  she  will  not  be  alive  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  afterwards.  {Exit. 


9CBNBV.1  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  1 59 

Scene  V. — Sganarelle,  MM.  Macroton,  Bahis. 

Scan.  Which  of  the  two  am  I  to  believe  ?  And  who  can 
decide  amidst  such  conflicting  opinions?  Gentlemen,  I 
beseech  you  to  guide  me,  and  to  tell  me,  dispassionately, 
the  best  means  of  relieving  my  daughter. 

M.  Mac.  {Drawling  out  his  words).  Sir,  in  these  kind- 
of-ca-ses,  one  must  pro-ceed  ve-ry  care-fully,  and  do  no- 
thing in-con-si-der-ate-ly,  as  the  say-ing  is ;  the  more  so, 
as  the  mis-takes  one  may  make,  ac-cord-ing  to  our  mas-ter 
Hip-po-cra-tes,  have  the  most  fatal  con-se-quen-ces. 

M.  Ba.  {Jerki?tg  out  his  words  hastily).  That  is  true 
enough,  one  must  take  great  care  what  one  does ;  for  this 
is  not  child's  play  ;  and,  when  a  mistake  has  been  made, 
it  is  not  easy  to  rectify  it,  nor  make  good  what  one  has 
spoilt :  experimentum  periculosuvi.  It  is,  therefore,  as  well 
to  argue  beforehand,  to  weigh  things  duly,  to  consider  the 
constitution  of  people,  to  examine  the  causes  of  the  com- 
plaint, and  to  decide  upon  the  remedies  to  be  adopted. 

Scan.  {Aside).  One  moves  like  a  tortoise,  while  the 
other  gallops  like  a  post-horse. 

M.  Mac.  Yes,  sir,  to  come  to  the  fact,  I  find  that  your 
daugh-ter  has  a  chro-nic  dis-ease,  to  which  she  will  suc- 
cumb if  re-lief  be  not  giv-en  to  her,  the  more  as  the  symp- 
toms give  in-di-ca-tions  of  e-mit-ting  fu-li-gi-nous  and 
mor-di-cant  ex-ha-la-tions  which  ir-ri-tate  the  ce-re-bral 
mem-branes.  And  these  va-pours,  which  in  Greek  we  call 
At-nios,  are  caus-ed  by  pu-trid,  te-na-ci-ous,  and  con-glu- 
ti-nous  hu-mours,  which  have  ag-glo-mer-at-ed  in  the  ab- 
do-men.^® 

M.  Ba.  And  as  these  humours  were  engendered  there 
by  a  long  succession  of  time,  they  have  become  hardened, 
and  have  assumed  those  malignant  fumes  that  rise  towards 
the  region  of  the  brain. 

M.  Mac.  Con-se-quent-ly,  in  or-der  to  with-draw,  to 
de-tach,  to  loos-en,  to  ex-pel,  to  e-va-cu-ate  these  said  hu- 

1'  This  is  the  theory  of  "  the  humours"  then  in  vogue  amongst 
physicians.  According  to  them,  every  disease  arose  from  a  superabun- 
dance of  humours,  which  were  either  in  too  great  quantity  or  of  too  bad 
a  quahty  ;  the  first  was  called  plethora,  and  was  supposed  to  be  cured  by 
copious  bleedings ;  against  the  second,  cacochymia,  a  frequent  use  of 
purgatives  was  recommended. 


l66  LOVE   IS   THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  [act  it 

mours,  a  ve-ry  strong  pur-ga-tive  is  ne-ces-sa-ry.  But  first 
of  all,  I  think  it  as  well,  and  it  will  not  cause  any  in-con- 
ve-ni-ence,  to  em-ploy  some  lit-tle  a-no-dyne  me-di-ci-nes, 
that  is  to  say,  small  e-mol-li-ent  and  de-ter-sive  in-jec- 
ti-ons,  re-fresh-ing  ju-leps  and  sy-rups,  which  may  be 
mix-ed  with  her  bar-ley  wa-ter. 

M.  Ba.  After  that,  we  will  come  to  the  purgatives,  and 
to  the  bleeding,  which  we  shall  repeat,  if  necessary. 

M.  Mac.  We  do  not  say  that  your  daugh-ter  may  not 
die  for  all  this ;  but  you  will  at  least  have  the  sat-is-fac- 
tion  of  hav-ing  done  some-thing,  and  the  con-so-la-tion  of 
know-ing  that  she  died  ac-cord-ing  to  rule. 

M.  Ba.  It  is  better  to  die  according  to  rule  than  to 
recover  in  violation  of  it. 

M.  Mac.  We  have  sin-ce-re-ly  told  you  our  o-pi-ni-ons. 

M.  Ba.  And  we  have  spoken  to  you  as  to  our  own 
brother. 

Sgan.  {To  M.  Macroton,  drawling  out  his  words).  lam 
hum-bly  o-bli-ged  to  you.  {To  M.  Bahis,  sputtering). 
And  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  trouble  you 
have  taken. 

Scene  VI. — Sganarelle,  alone. 

Here  I  am,  a  little  more  in  the  dark  than  I  was  before." 
Zounds.     I  have  got  an  idea !     I  will  buy  some  Orvietan," 

*^  The  result  of  the  consultation  of  the  physicians  is  the  same  for 
Sganarelle  as,  in  the  Phormio  (ii.,  4)  of  Terence,  the  result  of  the  consul- 
tation  of   the   three  lawyers  Cratinus,   Hegio,  Crito.     Demiphon,  after 

hearing  it,  cries  out,   ''Incertior  sum  multo  quam  dudum I  am 

much  more  uncertain  than  before." 

18  Towards  the  year  1639,  a  quack  began  to  sell,  on  the  Pont-Neuf  in 
Paris,  specifics  against  all  maladies,  and  especially  an  antidote,  the 
Orvietan,  so  called  because  it  was  prepared  by  a  certain  doctor  Lupi,  at 
Orvneto,  a  town  in  Italy.  His  real  name  was  Jacques  Ovyn,  and  he 
had  a  brother,  a  clergyman,  who,  as  well  as  himself,  was  called  de  P 
Orviitan ;  hence  Jal,  in  his  DicHonnaire  critique,  supposes  that  their 
father  must  already  have  sold  this  electuary.  His  probable  successor 
was  Christoforo  Contugi,  who  called  himself  "Antidotaire  du  Roi,"  and 
who,  according  to  Guy-Fating,  bribed  twelve  Paris  physicians,  who  had 
afterwards  to  ask  their  pardon  from  the  Faculty  of  Paris,  to  give  him  a 
certificate.  According  to  a  note  of  M.  Pauly,  in  the  edition  of  Moli^re, 
pubhshed  by  M.  Lemerre,  Paris,  Vol.  IV.,  Orvietan  was  an  antidote,  of 
which  the  secret  was  communicated,  in  1560,  by  Cardinal  Deodati  to 
his  apothecary,  Martin  Guerche.  It  was  then  called  antttan,  which 
means  antidote  of  the   time.      It  was  named  Orvietan  by  Hieronimo 


SCENE  VII.] 


LOVE   IS  THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  l6l 


and  I  will  make  her  take  it.  Orvietan  is  a  kind  of  remedy 
that  has  done  a  great  deal  of  good  to  many.     Soho  ! 

Scene  VII. — Sganarelle,  A  Quack. 

Scan.  Will  you,   Sir,  kindly  give  me  a  box  of  your 
Orvietan,  for  which  I  shall  pay  you  ? 

Quack.  (Sings).  The  gold  of  all  climes  which  by  the 
ocean  are  bound 
Can  e'er  it  repay  this  important  secret  ? 
My  remedy  cures,  by  its  excellence  rare, 
More  complaints  than  are  counted  up  in 
a  whole  year : 
The  itch,  the  mange,  the  scurf,  the  fever,  the  plague, 
The  gout,  the  small-pox,  ruptures,  the  measles, 
Great  power  possesses  my  Orvietan. 
Scan.  Sir,  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  all  the  gold  in 
the  world  could  not  pay  for  your  remedy  !  but  here  is  a 
piece  of  thirty  sous,  which  you  will  take,  if  you  please. 
Quack.  (Sings).    Admire  how  good  I  am.     For  a  few 
paltry  pence, 
I  dispense  freely  such  marvellous  treasure. 
With  this  you  may  brave,  quite  devoid  of 

all  fear. 
All  the  ills  to  which  mortals  are  subject 
down  here  : 
The  itch,  the  mange,  the  scurf,  the  fever,  the  plague. 
The  gout,  the  small-pox,  ruptures,  the  measles, 
Great  power  possesses  my  Orvietan. 

second  entry. 

Several  Trivelins^^  and  Scaramouches,  servants  of  the 
quack,  come  in  dancing. 


Feranti,  a  native  of  Orvieto,  whose  successor,  Giovanni  Vitrario,  trans- 
mitted the  recipe  for  it  to  his  son-in-law,  Christoforo  Contugi,  who  sold 
it  at  Paris,  in  virtue  of  a  royal  privilege,  dated  9th  April  1647.  In  the 
thirteenth  chapter  of  Kenilworth,  Sir  Walter  Scott  describes  how  Way- 
land  successfully  endeavoured  to  collect  materials  for  making  the 
Orvietan,  or  Venice  treacle,  as  it  was  sometimes  called, — understood  to  be 
a  sovereign  remedy  against  poison. 

19  Domenico  Lucatelli,  was  an  Italian  comedian,  who  died  in  1671, 
and  acted  at  Paris  the  part  of  Trivelin,  a  kind  of  harlequin. 

VOL.  II.  K 


l63  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [actiii. 

ACT    III. 

Scene  I. — MM,  Filerin,  TomSs,  Desfonandr^is. 

M.  FiL.  Are  you  not  ashamed,  gentlemen,  for  men  of 
your  age  to  show  so  little  discrimination,  and  to  quarrel 
like  young  madcaps  ?  Do  you  not  plainly  see  the  harm 
which  these  kinds  of  disputes  do  us  with  the  world  ?  and 
is  it  not  sufficient  that  the  learned  perceive  the  dissensions 
and  differences  between  our  contemporaries  and  the  old 
masters  of  our  craft,  without  revealing  to  the  public,  by 
our  quarrels  and  bickerings,  the  boasting  of  our  art  ?  As 
for  me,  I  do  not  at  all  understand  the  mischievous  policy 
of  some  of  our  brethren  ;  and  it  must  be  admitted  that  all 
these  controversies  have  somewhat  strangely  disparaged 
us,  and  that,  if  we  are  not  careful,  we  shall  ruin  ourselves. 
I  do  not  say  so  for  my  own  interest,  for,  Heaven  be 
praised,  my  little  affairs  are  already  settled.  Whether  it 
blows,  rains,  or  hails,  those  who  are  dead  are  dead,  and  I 
have  sufficient  to  be  independent  of  the  living ;  yet  all 
these  disputes  do  physic  no  good.  Since  Heaven  has  done 
us  the  favour,  that,  for  so  many  centuries,  people  remain 
infatuated  with  us,  let  us  not  open  their  eyes  by  our  ex- 
travagant cabals,  and  let  us  take  advantage  of  their  folly 
as  quietly  as  possible.  We  are  not  the  only  ones,  as  you 
know  full  well,  who  try  to  make  the  best  of  human  foibles. 
The  whole  study  of  the  greatest  part  of  mankind  tends 
towards  that ;  and  every  one  endeavours  to  speculate  on 
man's  weakness,  in  order  to  derive  some  benefit  from 
them.  Flatterers,  for  example,  seek  to  profit  by  men's 
love  for  praise,  by  giving  them  all  the  vain  incense  they 
crave ;  it  is  an  art  by  which,  as  we  may  see,  large  fortunes 
are  made.  Alchemists  seek  to  profit  by  the  passion  for 
wealth  by  promising  mountains  of  gold  to  those  who 
listen  to  them ;  the  drawers  of  horoscopes,  by  their  de- 
ceitful prophecies,  profit  by  the  vanity  and  ambition  of 
credulous  minds.  But  the  greatest  failing  in  men  is  their 
love  of  life ;  by  our  pompous  speeches  we  benefit  by  it, 
and  know  how  to  take  advantage  of  the  veneration  for 
our  profession  with  which  the  fear  of  death  inspires  them. 
Let  us,  therefore,  maintain  ourselves  in   that  esteem  in 


SCENE  n.]  LOVE   IS   THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  163 

which  their  foibles  have  placed  us,  and  let  us  agree  before 
our  patients,  so  as  to  claim  for  ourselves  the  credit  of  the 
happy  issue  of  the  complaint,  and  to  throw  on  Nature  all 
the  blunders  of  our  art.  Let  us  not,  I  say,  foolishly 
destroy  the  happy  accident  of  an  error,  which  gives  bread 
to  so  many  people,  and  which  allows  us  to  raise  every- 
where such  beautiful  estates  with  the  money  of  those  whom 
we  have  sent  to  the  grave.^ 

M,  To.  You  are  right  in  all  that  you  say ;  but  some- 
times one  cannot  control  one's  temper. 

M.  FiL.  Come,  gentlemen,  lay  aside  all  animosity,  and 
make  up  your  quarrel  on  the  spot. 

M.  Des.  I  consent.  Let  him  allow  me  to  have  my  way 
with  the  emetic  for  the  patient  in  question  ;  and  I  will  let 
him  have  his  with  the  first  patient  he  shall  be  concerned 
with. 

M.  FiL.  Nothing  could  be  better  said,  and  that  is  rea- 
sonable. 

M.  Des.  Very  well,  that  is  settled. 

M.  FiL.  Shake  hands  then.  Farewell.  Another  time, 
show  more  tact. 

Scene  II. — M.  ToMfes,  M.  DESFONANDRfes,  Lisette. 

Lis.  What !  gentlemen,  you  are  here,  and  you  do  not 
think  of  repairing  the  wrong  done  to  the  medical  profes- 
sion? 

M.  To.  What  now  ?     What  is  the  matter  ? 

Lis.  Some  insolent  fellow  has  had  the  impudence  to 
encroach  upon  your  trade,  and,  without  your  prescription, 
has  killed  a  man  by  running  a  sword  clean  through  his 
body. 

M.  To.  Look  you  here,  you  may  laugh  at  us  now ;  but 
you  shall  fall  into  our  hands  one  of  these  days. 

Lis.  If  ever  I  have  recourse  to  you,  I  give  you  leave  to 
kill  me. 


*•  A  great  part  of  Dr.  Filerin's  speech  sets  forth  some  of  Montaigne's 
ideas,  contained  in  the  Essays,  Book  II.,  chapter  xxxvii.  Moli^re  re- 
peats some  of  these  same  ideas,  clothed  in  dog-Latin,  and  puts  them 
into  the  opening  speech  of  the  president  of  the  learned  assembly  of 
persons  connected  with  the  medical  profession,  in  the  third  Interlude  of 
the  Hypochondriac  (See  Vol.  III.) 


164  LOVE   IS  THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  [act  hi. 

Scene   III. — Clitandre,  disguised  as  a  physician, 

LiSETTE. 

Cltt.  Well,  Lisette,  what  do  you  think  of  my  disguise? 
Do  you  believe  that  I  can  trick  the  good  man  in  these 
clothes  ?     Do  I  look  all  right  thus. 

Lis.  It  could  not  be  better ;  and  I  have  been  waiting 
impatiently  for  you.  Heaven  has  given  me  the  most  hu- 
mane disposition  in  the  world,  and  I  cannot  bear  to  see 
two  lovers  sigh  for  one  another,  without  entertaining  a 
charitable  tenderness  towards  them,  and  an  ardent  wish  to 
relieve  the  ills  which  they  are  suffering.  I  mean,  no  mat- 
ter at  what  cost,  to  free  Lucinde  from  the  tyranny  to  which 
she  is  subjected,  and  to  confide  her  to  your  care.  I  liked 
you  at  first  sight :  I  am  a  good  judge  of  people,  and  she 
could  not  have  made  a  better  choice.  Love  risks  extra- 
ordinary things,  and  we  have  concocted  a  little  scheme, 
which  may  perhaps  be  successful.  All  our  measures  are 
already  taken :  the  man  we  have  to  deal  with  is  not  one 
of  the  sharpest ;  and  if  this  trick  fail,  we  shall  find  a  thou- 
sand other  ways  to  encompass  our  end.  Just  wait  here  a 
little,  I  shall  come  back  to  fetch  you.  {Clitandre  retires 
to  the  far  end  of  the  stage. 

Scene  IV. — Sgaitarelle,  Lisette. 

Lis.  Hurrah  !  hurrah !  Sir. 

Scan.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Lis.  Rejoice. 

Scan.  At  what  ? 

Lis.  Rejoice,  I  say. 

Scan.  Tell  me  what  it  is  about,  and  then  I  shall  rejoice, 
perhaps. 

Lis.  No.  I  wish  you  to  rejoice  first,  I  wish  you  to  sing, 
to  dance. 

Scan.  On  what  grounds? 

Lis.  On  my  bare  word. 

Scan.  Be  it  so.  (^He  sings  and  dances').  La,  lera,  la, 
la,  la,  lera,  la.     What  the  deuce  ! 

Lis.  Your  daughter  is  cured.  Sir. 

Scan.  My  daughter  is  cured  ? 

Lis.  Yes.     I  have  brought  you  a  doctor,  but  a  doctor 


scKNBVi.]  LOVE  IS  THE   BEST   DOCTOR.  165 

of  importance,  who  works  wonderful  cures,  and  who 
laughs  at  the  other  physicians. 

Sgan.  Where  is  he  ? 

Lis.  I  shall  bring  him  in. 

Sgan.  (Alone).  It  remains  to  be  seen  if  he  will  do 
more  than  the  others. 

Scene  V. — Clitandre  disguised  as  a  physician,  Sgana- 

RELLE,  LiSETTE. 

Lis.  {Leading  Clitandre).     Here  he  is. 

Sgan.  That  doctor  has  not  much  beard,  as  yet. 

Lis.  Knowledge  is  not  measured  by  the  beard,  and  his 
skill  does  not  lie  in  his  chin. 

Sgan.  Sir,  they  tell  me  that  you  have  some  capital  re- 
cipes for  relieving  the  bowels. 

Clit.  My  remedies,  sir,  are  different  from  those  of 
other  physicians.  They  use  emetics,  bleeding,  drugs, 
and  injections ;  but  I  cure  by  words,  sounds,  letters,  tal- 
ismans, and  rings. 

Lis.  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ? 

Sgan.  A  great  man  this ! 

Lis.  Sir,  as  your  daughter  is  yonder,  ready  dressed,  in 
her  chair,  I  shall  bring  her  here. 

Sgan.  Yes,  do. 

Cut.  (Feeling  Sganarelle^ s  pul^e).  Your  daughter  is 
very  ill,  Sir. 

Sgan.  You  can  tell  that  here  ? 

Clit.  Yes,  by  the  sympathy  which  exists  between 
father  and  daughter. 

Scene  VL — Sganarelle,  Lucinde,  Clitandre,  Lisette. 

Lis.  (To  Clitandre).  Sir,  here  is  a  chair  near  her.  (To 
Sganarelle).     Come,  let  us  leave  them  to  themselves. 

Sgan.  Why  so  ?     I  wish  to  remain  here. 

Lis.  Are  you  jesting  ?  We  must  leave  them.  A  doctor 
has  a  hundred  things  to  ask,  which  it  is  not  decent  for  a 
man  to  hear.  (Sganarelle  and  Lisette  retire. 

Clit.  (Softly  to  Lucinde).  Ah  !  lady,  how  great  is  my 
delight  !  and  how  little  do  I  know  how  to  begin  my  dis- 
course !  As  long  as  I  spoke  to  you  only  with  my  eyes,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  a  hundred  things  to  say ;  and 


X66  LOVE   IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  ni. 

now  that  I  have  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  you,  as 
I  wished,  I  remain  silent,  and  my  great  joy  prevents  my 
utterance. 

Luc.  I  may  say  the  same ;  and  I  feel,  like  you,  thrills 
of  joy  which  prevent  me  from  speaking. 

Clit.  Ah !  madam,  how  happy  should  I  be,  if  it  were 
true  that  you  feel  all  I  do,  and  that  I  were  allowed  to 
judge  of  your  heart  by  mine.  But,  may  I  at  least  believe, 
dear  lady,  that  I  owe  to  you  the  idea  of  this  happy  scheme 
which  enables  me  to  enjoy  your  presence. 

Luc.  If  you  do  not  altogether  owe  the  thought  to  me, 
you  are,  at  any  rate,  my  debtor  for  having  gladly  approved 
of  the  proposal. 

Scan.  {^To  Lisette).  It  seems  to  me  that  he  talks  very 
close  to  her. 

Lis.  He  is  studying  her  physiognomy,  and  all  the  features 
of  her  face. 

Clit.  ( To  Lucinde).  Will  you  be  constant,  dear  lady, 
in  these  favours  which  you  are  bestowing  upon  me  ? 

Luc.  But  you,  will  you  be  firm  in  the  resolutions  which 
you  have  taken  ? 

Clit.  Ah  !  madam,  till  death.  I  desire  nothing  so 
much  as  to  be  yours ;  and  I  shall  prove  it  to  you. 

Scan.  (7i?  Clitandre).  Well!  how  does  our  patient? 
She  seems  a  little  more  cheerful. 

Clit.  That  is  because  I  have  already  tried  upon  her  one 
of  the  remedies  which  my  art  teaches  me.  As  the  mind 
has  a  great  influence  on  the  body,  and  as  it  is  from  the 
first  that  diseases  most  generally  arise,  my  custom  is  to 
cure  the  mind  before  dealing  with  the  body.  I  have 
therefore  studied  this  young  lady's  looks,  her  features,  and 
the  lines  of  both  her  hands ;  and  by  the  knowledge  which 
Heaven  has  bestowed  upon  me,  I  have  discovered  she  is 
ill  in  mind,  and  that  the  whole  of  her  complaint  arises 
only  from  a  disordered  imagination,  from  an  inordinate 
desire  of  being  married.  As  for  myself,  I  think  nothing 
more  extravagant  and  ridiculous  than  this  hankering  after 
marriage. 

Sgan.   {Aside) .  A  clever  fellow  this  ! 

Clit.  And  I  have  and  always  shall  have,  a  frightful 
dislike  to  it. 


SCBNBVI.]  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  167 

Scan.  {Aside).  A  great  doctor  this  ! 

Cut.  But  as  we  must  humour  the  imagination  of 
patients,  and  as  I  have  perceived  in  her  a  wandering  of 
the  mind,  and  even  that  there  was  great  danger  in  not 
giving  her  prompt  relief,  I  have  taken  her  at  her  foible, 
and  told  her  that  I  came  here  to  solicit  her  hand  from 
you.  Suddenly  her  countenance  changed,  her  complexion 
cleared,  her  eyes  became  animated  ;  and  if  you  will  leave 
her  for  a  few  days  in  this  error,  you  will  see  that  we  shall 
cure  her. 

Sgan.  Indeed,  I  do  not  mind. 

Clit.  After  that,  we  shall  apply  other  means  to  cure  her 
of  this  fancy. 

Sgan.  Yes,  that  will  do  very  well.  Listen !  my  girl, 
this  gentleman  wishes  to  marry  you,  and  I  have  told  him 
that  I  give  my  consent. 

Luc.  Alas!  can  it  be  possible  ? 

Sgan.  Of  course. 

Luc.  But  really,  in  earnest  ? 

Sgan.  Certainly. 

Luc.  ( To  Clitandre).  What !  You  wish  to  be  my 
husband  ? 

Clit.  Yes,  madam. 

Luc.  And  my  father  consents  to  it  ? 

Sgan.  Yes,  my  child. 

Luc.  Ah  how  happy  I  am  !  if  that  is  true. 

Clit.  Doubt  it  not,  madam.  My  love  for  you,  and  my 
ardent  wish  to  be  your  husband,  do  not  date  from  to-day, 
I  came  only  for  this ;  and,  if  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  the 
plain  truth,  this  dress  is  nothing  but  a  mere  disguise ;  I 
acted  the  physician  only  to  get  near  to  you,  and  the  more 
easily  to  obtain  what  I  desire. 

Luc.  These  are  signs  of  a  very  tender  love,  and  I  am 
fully  sensible  of  them. 

Sgan.  (Aside).  Oh,  poor  silly  girl !  silly  girl !  silly 
girl! 

Luc.  You  do  consent  then,  father,  to  give  me  this  gen- 
tleman for  a  husband  ? 

Sgan.  Yes,  certainly.  Come,  give  me  your  hand.  Give 
me  yours  also.  Sir,  for  a  moment. 

Clit.  But,  Sir  .  .  . 


l68  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  in. 

Scan.  ( With  suppressed  laughter).     No,  no,  it  is  .    .    . 
to  satisfy  her  mind.     Take  it.     That  is  over. 

Clit.  Accept,  as  a  pledge  of  my  faith,  this  ring  which 
I  give  you  {Softly  to  Sganarelle).  It  is  a  constellated  ring, 
which  cures  aberrations  of  the  mind.** 

Luc.  Let  us  draw  up  the  contract,  so  that  nothing  may 
be  wanting. 

Clit.  I  have  no  objections.  Madam.  (Softly  to  Sgana- 
relle). I  will  bring  the  fellow  who  writes  my  prescriptions, 
and  will  make  her  believe  that  he  is  a  notary. 

Scan.  Just  so. 

Clit.  Hulloo !  send  up  the  notary  I  have  brought  with 
me. 

Luc.  What !  you  brought  a  notary  with  you  ? 

Clit.  Yes,  Madam. 

Luc.  I  am  glad  of  that. 

Scan.  Oh  the  poor  silly  girl !  the  silly  girl ! 

Scene  VIL — The  Notary,  Clitandre,  Sganarelle, 

LUCINDE,    LiSETTE. 

(^Clitandre  speaks  softly  to  the  Notary.) 

Scan.  {To  the  Notary).  Yes,  Sir,  you  are  to  draw  up 
a  contract  for  these  two  people.  Write.  {To  Lucinde). 
We  are  making  the  contract.  {To  the  Notary).  I  give 
her  twenty  thousand  crowns  as  a  portion.  Write  that 
down. 

Luc.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  dear  father. 

Not.  That  is  done.     You  have  only  to  sign  it. 

Scan.  That  is  a  quickly  drawn  contract. 

Clit.  {To  Sganarelle).     But  at  least,  Sir  .    .    . 

** These  rings,  sometimes  called  also  "planetary  rings"  had  certain 
stars  or  planets  engraved  upon  them,  and  were  supposed  to  soothe  the  mind ; 
a  reminiscence  of  the  feeling  that  stars  influenced  human  destiny.  The 
metals  from  which  these  rings  were  made  appear  also  to  be  thought  to  . 
have  some  mysterious  power,  for  the  seven  metals — gold,  silver,  mercury, 
copper,  iron,  tin,  and  lead, — were  under  the  influence  of  the  Sun,  the 
Moon,  Mercury,  Venus,  Mars,  Jupiter,  Saturn.  If  the  rings  were  com- 
posed of  several  metals,  then,  of  course,  different  influences  were  at 
work ;  if  made  of  all  the  metals — the  electron  of  Paracelsus — they  pos- 
sessed the  highest  power.  I  imagine  that  the  metals  used  in  the 
manufacture  of  such  rings  must  also  have  had  some  connection  with  the 
horoscope  of  the  person  for  whom  it  was  made. 


SCENE  IX.]  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  1 69 

Scan.   No,  no,  I  tell  you.     Do  we  not  all  know  .    .    . 
(^To  the  Notary).     Come,  hand  him  the  pen  to  sign.    {To 
Lucinde).     Com5  you,  sign  now,  sign,  sign.    Well,  I  shall 
sign  presently. 

Luc.  No,  no,  I  will  have  the  contract  in  my  own  hands. 

Sgan.  Well !  there  then.  {After  having  signed).  Are 
you  satisfied  ? 

Luc.  Better  than  you  can  imagine. 

Sgan.  That  is  all  right,  then,  that  is  all  right. 

Clit.  I  have  not  only  had  the  precaution  to  bring  a 
notary;  I  have  also  brought  singers,  musicians,  and 
dancers  to  celebrate  the  feast,  and  for  our  enjoyment. 
Let  them  come  in.  They  are  people  I  always  have  with 
me,  and  whom  I  daily  make  use  of  to  calm,  by  their  har- 
mony and  dancing,  the  troubles  of  the  mind. 

Scene  VIII. — Comedy,  The  Ballet,  Music.  ^ 

Together.  Without  our  aid,  all  humankind 
Would  soon  become  unhealthy. 
We  are  indeed  the  best  of  all  physicians. 
Comedy.       Would  you  dispel  by  easy  means 

Splenetic  fumes  that  man  is  heir  to. 
Avoid  Hippocrates,  and  come  to  us. 
Together.  Without  our  aid,  all  humankind 
Would  soon  become  unhealthy. 
We  are  indeed  the  best  of  all  physicians. 
( While  the  Sports,  Laughter,  and  Pleasures  are  dancing 
together,  Clitandre  leads  Lucinde  away). 

Scene  IX— Sganarelle,  Lisette,  Music,  The  Ballet, 
Sports,  Laughter,  Pleasures. 

Sgan.  A  pleasant  way  of  curing  people  this !  But  where 
are  my  daughter  and  the  doctor? 
.  Lis.  They  are  gone  to  finish  the  remaining  part  of  the 
marriage. 

Sgan.  What  do  you  mean  by  the  marriage? 


*'  Here  the  words  "third  entry"  ought  to  come,  or  perhaps  above  the 
words  "while  the  sports,"  etc.,  but  nothing  is  given  in  the  original  copies 
I  have  compared. 


I70  LOVE  IS  THE  BEST  DOCTOR.  [act  hi. 

Lis.  The  fact  is,  Sir,  you  have  been  cleverly  done;'* 
and  the  joke  you  thought  to  play  remains  a  truth. 

Scan.  The  devil  it  does!  {He  wishes  to  rush  after 
Clita?idre  and  Lucinde,  the  dancers  restrain  hint).  Let  me 
go,  let  me  go,  I  tell  you.  ( The  dancers  still  keep  hold  of 
him.^  Again  !  {They  wish  to  make  hint  dance  by  force). 
Plague  take  you  all ! 

**The  original  has  la  becasse  est  iridee,  the  woodcock  is  caught,  an 
allusion  to  the  snare  in  which  those  birds  catch  themselves. 


LE   MISANTHROPE. 

COMEDIE. 


THE  MISANTHROPE 

A  COMEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

(  the  original  in  verse.) 

June  4th,  1666. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


Tk*  HisoM^krope,  McJiftre'^ina5teipieoe,acconfii^  to  Voltaire,  was  fiast 
acted  on  tbe  4th  of  June,  1666.  at  the  tfaottre  of  the  Palais  Royal,  and, 
in  spite  of  what  has  generaDj  been  b^ned,  vas  no  complete  failure ;  for 
it  was  represented  twenty-one  coDsecudve  times.^  It  is,  bovever,  sot  to 
be  expected  that  a  comedy  like  Tk^  MiswUkn^  sboold  please  Ae  gen- 
eral public  as  much  as  a  &Tce.  Bat  tix>se  who  admired  DoUe  tbongfats^ 
select  language,  aocmate  ddinearions  of  cteiarhT.  and  a  perfect  and  en- 
tertaining style,  placed  Hus  oomedy  from  die  very  beginning  vliere  it  is 
now  generally  put,  with  ttie  common  consent  of  all  stndcnts  of  soond  lit- 
erature, in  the  foremost  rank  of  tbe  good  comedies  of  Moli^re. 

Tbe  subject  of  a  misanthrope  has  been  treated  at  all  times  and  in  aUfite- 
latures.  Antiquity  possessed  a  proveibial  misanthrope,  vliich  Flntardi 
mentions  in  bis  Lives  of  lUmstrwms  Mat  (Tunon)  in  the  foUowing  words : 

"  Anth(»iy  in  tbe  meantime  foisook  the  city  and  the  socie^  of  his 
friends,  and  retired  to  a  small  house  which  he  had  boflt  himself  near 
Pharos.  <m  a  mound  be  had  cast  up  in  the  sea.  In  this  plaoe^  aeqaestefed 
from  all  commerce  with  mankind,  be  atfrctrd  to  hve  like  Thnon,  because 
there  was  a  resemblance  in  their  ibrtnnes.  He  had  been  deseited  by  1^ 
friends,  and  their  ingratitude  had  put  b!m  out  of  humour  with  his  own 
spedes. 

••  This  Timon  was  a  citiaen  of  Athens,  and  lined  about  the  time  of  the 
Pdopoimesian  war,  as  appeals  from  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes  and 
Plato  in  which  he  is  eiqmsed  as  die  hato-  tA  mankind.  Yet.  aUhoni^  he 
hated  mankind  in  general,  he  caressed  the  bold  and  impudent  boy  Aki> 
biad^  and  being  soked  tbe  reason  of  this  by  Apemantns,  who  e^qiressed 
some  sor^Mise  at  it,  he  answered,  it  was  because  he  foresaw  that  he  woold 
plague  the  people  of  Athens.  Apemantus  was  die  only  one  he  admitted 
to  Us  society,  and  he  was  his  friend  in  |x>int  of  princqile.    At  tfie  feast 

y  M.  £.  Despots,  in  his  Toy  aooorate  book,  Lt  Tiimtrr  Jrmmcmiae  sma  Ltmit 
XIV.,  states  mat  7%e  Mitmmtkntf>e ms  neither  a  great  snctess,  nor  a  cwplne 
&ilure.  At  its  first  ramseatatioa,  14(7  fiTres,  10  sues  were  received,  wUc^  was  a 
considenble"  take"  nrdtattiiae:  hot  fiom  the  durd  npi>.w.iitttioa,  the  reoeqas 
went  down  to  between  <Sao  and  joo  fines,  and  die  aeodi  hmaghl  amj  ata  ihrrcs. 
It  is  therefore,  inoi«  diaa  nrafaalile  dtat,  if  das  i.>imi  iIj  had  ant  been  Maii£re*s, 
and  ptlayed  in  his  own  mealie,  it  woiddhav«  been  widldkawn.  Thetweaqr- 
first  representatian  took  piaoe  on  a  Saaday.  when  dtere  was  geacnBf  a  (ood  dal 
of  moaey  taken  at  dhe  door  aad  bramght  only  a@  livres, 

173 


174  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

of  sacrifices  for  the  dead,  these  two  dined  by  themselves,  and  when  Ape- 
mantus  observed  that  the  feast  was  excellent,  Timon  answered,  "  It  would 
be  so  if  you  were  not  here.''  Once,  in  an  assembly  of  the  people,  he 
mounted  the  rostrum,  and  the  novelty  of  the  thing  occasioned  a  universal 
silence  and  expectation  ;  at  length  he  said,  "  People  of  Athens,  there  is  a 
fig-tree  in  my  yard,  on  which  many  worthy  citizens  have  hanged  them- 
selves, and  as  I  have  determined  to  build  upon  the  spot,  I  thought  it  ne- 
cessary to  give  this  public  notice,  that  such  as  choose  to  have  recourse  to 
this  tree  for  the  aforesaid  purpose  may  repair  to  it  before  it  is  cut  down." 

"  He  was  buried  at  Halae  near  the  sea,  and  the  water  surrounded  his 
tomb  in  such  a  manner  that  he  was  even  then  inaccessible  to  mankind. 

"  The  following  epitaph  is  inscribed  on  his  monument : 

'  At  last  I've  bid  the  knaves  farewell  ; 
Ask  not  my  name — ^but  go — to  hell.' 

"  It  is  said  that  he  wrote  this  epitaph  himself.  That  which  is  commonly 
repeated  is  by  Callimachus. 

'  My  name  is  Timon,  knaves  begone  I 
Curse  me,  but  come  not  near  my  stone  1' 

''  These  are  some  of  the  many  anecdotes  we  have  concerning  Timon." 
In  Lucian's  "  Dialogues  of  the  Dead,"  Dialogue  XXIV.,  Timon  is 
represented  as  finding  fault  with  Jupiter  about  his  half-heartedness,  twit- 
ting him  with  his  want  of  energy,  that  when  they  despoiled  his  temples 
and  robbed  him  on  Olympus,  he  dared  not  set  the  dogs  after  them,  nor 
call  the  neighbours  to  his  assistance,  and  compares  his  own  case  with  that 
of  Jove.  Jupiter  does  not  altogether  like  this,  and  wishes  to  know  from 
Mercury  who  that  dirty  fellow  is,  standing  at  the  foot  of  Hymettus,  abus- 
ing him — coming  to  the  conclusion  that  it  must  be  some  philosopher  rail- 
ing against  him.  Upon  being  informed  by  his  son  who  he  really  is,  the 
Thunderer  expresses  his  surprise  and  sorrow  at  the  change  that  has  taken 
place  in  the  condition  of  the  once  so  wealthy  man,  and  inquires  the 
causes  of  this  decline.  "  To  speak  simply,'"  answered  Mercury,  "  bene- 
volence has  ruined  him,  also  philanthropy  and  compassion  towards  all 
in  need ;  but  to  speak  truly,  folly  and  simplicity  in  choosing  his  friends, 
who  were  only  so  many  vultures  gnawing  his  liver,  treating  him  with  dis- 
dain afterwards,  when  he  was  no  longer  useful,  and  even  pretending  not 
to  know  his  name."  Jove  now  begins  to  remember  Timon  in  his  better 
days,  and  chides  himself  for  his  neglect  in  having  forgotten  him  ;  alleging, 
however,  as  the  cause,  the  noise  which  the  perjured  and  the  wicked  make 
around  him,  not  leaving  him  a  moment's  leisure  to  look  into  Attica.  He 
commands  Mercury  to  take  Plutus  with  him,  to  seek  Timon,  and  remain 
with  him,  even  should  he  endeavour  to  drive  them  from  his  house  by  re- 
peating his  former  acts  of  benevolence.  He  also  promises  revenge  upon 
those  who  have  been  ungratefiil  to  Timon  when  his  thunderbolts  shall  be 
repaired,  which  are  out  of  order  just  then,  he  having  hurled  them  at  the 
sophist  Anaxagoras,  who  was  persuading  his  disciples  that  the  gods  did 
not  exist  at  all.  Plutus  refuses  to  go  to  Timon  because  he  insulted  him, 
and  divided  him  amongst  flatterers  and  parasites  ;  and  begs  Jove  to  send 
him  to  those  who  will  appreciate  him,  and  not  squander  him  in  benevo- 
lence. Jupiter  informs  Plutus  that  Timon  shall  not  do  so  again,  having 
gained  experience  by  his  misfortunes  ;  at  the  same  time  telling  him  that 
he  has  often  complained  of  different  treatment  by  being  completely  im- 
prisoned under  bars  and  keys.     Plutus  gives  him  to  understand  that  he 


THE  MISANTHROPE.  I75 

prefers  the  middle  way,  and  does  not  like  the  greed  of  some,  any  more 
than  the  lavishness  of  others.  He  prepares  to  go  in  company  with  Mer- 
cury to  find  Timon.  They  meet  with  him  close  at  hand,  digging  the  soil. 
Plutus  thinks  that,  surrounded  as  he  is  by  Labour,  Wisdom,  Strength, 
and  Fortitude,  they  cannot  do  much  for  him,  and  wishes  them  to  leave 
him.  Poverty,  who  is  closely  attending  Timon,  resents  the  intrusion  of 
Plutus  and  Mercury,  telling  them  that  he  had  formed  the  man  perfectly 
to  his  work,  which  they  would  only  undo  again,  and  Timon  also  reviles 
them  for  having  come  to  disturb  him,  threatening  to  strike  them.  The 
two  gods  reve^  themselves  to  him,  offering  him  wealth.  Timon  tells  Plu- 
tus to  go  and  hang  himself,  and  offers  to  smash  him  to  pieces.  Plutus  in- 
tends to  depart,  Mercury  persuades  Timon  to  reconsider  his  decision,  but 
Timon  persists,  telling  them  he  has  no  need  of  their  services,  that  his 
spade  is  wealth  enough,  and  that  he  will  be  perfectly  happy  if  but  left 
alone,  asking  them  to  convey  his  thanks  to  Jupiter  for  his  kind  attentions, 
but  persistently  refusing  to  have  ought  to  do  with  Plutus,  ascribing  all  his 
misfortunes  to  the  blind  god,  who  offers  to  defend  himself  from  the  accu- 
sations, Timon  permitting  him  to  do  so  in  a  few  words  only.  Timon  re- 
luctantly consents  to  become  rich  again  in  obedience  to  Jupiter,  upon 
which  all  his  parasites  anew  assemble  round  him. 

The  above  sketches  fairly  represent  th^  idea  which  antiquity  formed  of 
a  misanthrope. 

Moli^re's  play  of  The  Misanthrope,  his  only  comedy  which  represents 
courtiers  and  courtly  people,  opens  with  great  spirit,  and  shows  us  the 
hero  Alceste  attacking  his  friend  Philinte  for  being  too  lenient  and  toler- 
ant to  the  foibles  of  mankind,  whilst  the  defence  of  the  latter  is  plausible, 
perhaps  too  much  so.  Then  we  have  Oronte,  the  high-bom  but  wretched 
poet,  who,  offended  by  Alceste's  blunt,  honest  opinion,  goes  away  fuming 
and  fretting.  The  coquettish,  evil-speaking  C61im^ne,  beloved  by  Al- 
ceste, spurns  an  honest  man's  affection,  through  vanity  and  thoughtless- 
ness, enlivens  the  comedy,  and  is  finally  rewarded  and  cruelly  mortified 
by  being  discarded.  Such  men  as  Acaste  and  Clitandre,  represent  the 
butterflies  of  society,  fluttering  from  one  drawing-room  to  another,  but 
instead  of  distilling,  as  from  flowers,  sweet  odours,  only  carrying  venom- 
ous poison  with  glib  and  smooth  small  talk.  The  charming  Miss  Eliante, 
whose  beauty  is  enhanced  by  modest  behaviour,  finally  receives  the  hand 
of  Philinte. 

I  think  no  better  delineation  has  been  given  of  this  play  than  the  fol- 
lowing one  by  M.  Taine,  in  his  "  History  of  English  Literature  :" — "  A 
dozen  conversations  make  up  the  play  of  The  Misanthrope.  The  same 
situation,  five  or  six  times  renewed,  is  the  whole  of  /'  ^cole  des  Femmes. 
These  pieces  are  made  out  of  nothing.  They  have  no  need  of  incidents, 
they  find  ample  space  in  the  compass  of  one  room  and  one  day,  without 
surprises,  without  decoration,  with  an  arras  and  four  arm-chairs.  This 
paucity  of  matter  throws  out  the  ideas  more  clearly  and  quickly  ;  in  fact, 
their  whole  aim  is  to  bring  those  ideas  prominently  forward ;  the  simpli- 
city of  the  subject,  the  progress  of  the  action,  the  linking  together  of  the 
scenes, — to  this  everything  tends.  At  every  step  clearness  increases,  the 
impression  is  deepened,  vice  stands  out :  ridicule  is  piled  up,  until,  before 
so  many  apt  and  united  appeals,  laughter  forces  its  way  and  breaks  forth. 
.And  this  laughter  is  not  a  mere  outburst  of  physical  amusement ;  it  is  the 
judgment  which  incites  it.  The  writer  is  a  philosopher,  who  brings  us 
into  contact  with  a  universal  truth  by  a  particular  example.  We  under- 
stand through  him,  as  through  La  Bruy^re  or  Nicole,  the  force  of  pre- 


176  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

judice,  the  obstinacy  of  conventionality,  the  blindness  of  love.  The  cou- 
plets of  his  dialogue,  like  the  arguments  of  their  treatises,  are  but  the 
worked-out  proof  and  the  logical  justification  of  a  preconceived  conclu- 
sion. We  philosophize  with  him  on  humanity ;  we  think  because  he  has 
thought.  And  he  has  Only  thought  thus  in  the  character  of  a  French- 
man, for  an  audience  of  French  men  of  the  world.  In  him  we  taste  a 
national  pleasure.  French  refined  and  systematic  intelligence,  the  most 
exact  in  seizing  on  the  subordination  of  ideas,  the  most  ready  in  separa- 
ting ideas  from  matter,  the  most  fond  of  clear  and  tangible  ideas,  finds  in 
him  its  nourishment  and  its  echo.  None  who  have  sought  to  show  us  man- 
kind, has  led  us  by  a  straighter  and  easier  mode  to  a  more  distinct  and 
speaking  portrait.  I  will  add,  to  a  more  pleasing  portrait, — and  this  is 
the  main  talent  of  comedy  :  it  consists  in  keeping  back  what  is  hateful ; 
and  observe  that  that  which  is  hateful  abounds  in  the  world.  As  soon  as 
you  will  paint  the  world  truly,  philosophically,  you  meet  with  vice,  in- 
justice, and  everywhere  indignation  ;  amusement  flees  before  anger  and 
morality.  ...  In  The  Misanthrope,  is  not  the  spectacle  of  a  loyally  sincere 
and  honest  man,  very  much  in  love,  whom  his  virtue  finally  overwhelms 
with  ridicule  and  drives  fi-om  society,  a  sad  sight  to  see  ?  .  .  .  How  every- 
thing changes  under  the  hand  of  the  mercurial  Frenchman  1  how  all  this 
human  ugliness  is  blotted  out !  how  amusing  is  the  spectacle  which  Mo- 
li^re  has  arranged  for  us !  how  we  ought  to  thank  the  great  artist  for 
having  transformed  his  subjects  so  we!l !  At  last  we  have  a  cheerful 
world,  on  canvas  at  least ;  we  could  not  have  it  otherwise,  but  this  we 
have.  How  pleasant  it  is  to  forget  truth  !  what  an  art  is  that  which  di- 
vests us  of  ourselves !  what  a  point  of  view  which  converts  the  contor- 
tions of  suffering  into  funny  grimaces  !  Gaiety  has  come  upon  us,  the 
dearest  possession  of  a  Frenchman.  The  soldiers  of  Villars  used  to  dance 
that  they  might  forget  they  had  no  longer  any  bread.  Of  all  French 
possessions,  too,  it  is  the  best.  This  gift  does  not  destroy  thought,  but  it 
masks  it.  In  Moliire,  truth  is  at  the  bottom,  but  concealed;  he  has 
heard  the  sobs  of  human  tragedy,  but  he  prefers  not  to  re-echo  them.  It 
is  quite  enough  to  feel  our  wounds  smart ;  let  us  not  go  to  the  theatre  to 
see  them  again.  Philosophy,  while  it  reveals  them,  advises  us  not  to 
think  of  them  too  much.  Let  us  enliven  our  condition  with  the  gaiety  of 
easy  conversation  and  light  wit,  as  we  would  the  chamber  of  sickness,  .  . 
Let  Alceste  be  grumpy  and  awkward.  It  is  in  the  first  place  true,  be- 
cause our  more  valiant  virtues  are  only  the  outbreaks  of  a  temper  out  of 
harmony  with  circumstances  ;  but,  in  addition,  it  will  be  amusing.  His 
mishaps  will  cease  to  make  him  the  martyr  of  justice  ;  they  will  only  be 

the  consequences  of  a  cross-grained  character Moli^re  is  the  only 

man  who  gives  us  models  without  getting  pedantic,  without  trenching  on 
the  tragic,  without  growing  solemn. 

"  This  model  is  the  '  respectable  man,'  as  the  phrase  was,  Philinte, 
Ariste,  Clitandre,  Eraste ;  there  is  no  other  who  can  at  the  same  time  in- 
struct and  amuse  us.  His  talent  has  reflection  for  its  basis,  but  it  is  culti- 
vated by  the  world.  His  character  has  honesty  for  its  basis,  but  it  is  in 
harmony  with  the  world.  You  may  imitate  him  vnthout  transgressing 
either  reason  or  duty  ;  he  is  neither  a  coxcomb  nor  a  roisterer.  You  can 
imitate  him  witliout  neglecting  your  interests  or  making  yourself  ridicu- 
lous ;  he  is  neither  an  ignoramus  nor  unmannerly.  He  has  read  and  un-  . 
derstands  the  jargon  of  Trissotin  and  Lycidas,  but  in  order  to  pierce 
them  through  and  through,  to  beat  them  with  their  own  arguments,  to  set 
the  gallery  in  a  roar  at  their  expense.     He  will  discuss  even  morality  and 


THE  MISANTHROPE.  I77 

religion,  but  in  a  style  so  natural,  with  proofe  so  clear,  with  warmth  so  genu- 
ine, that  he  interests  women,  and  is  listened  to  by  men  of  the  world.  He 
knows  man,  and  reasons  about  him,  but  in  such  brief  sentences,  such  living 
delineations,  such  pungent  humour,  that  his  philosophy  is  the  best  of  enter- 
tainments. He  is  faithful  to  his  ruined  mistress,  his  calumniated  friend,  but 
gracefully,  without  fuss.  All  his  actions,  even  noble  ones,  have  an  easy  way 
about  them  which  adorns  them  ;  he  does  nothing  without  pleasantness.  His 
great  talent  is  knowledge  of  the  world ;  he  shows  it  not  only  in  the  trivial 
circumstances  of  every-day  life,  but  in  the  most  passionate  scenes,  the 
most  embarrassing  positions.  A  noble  swordsman  wants  to  take  Phihnte, 
the  'respectable  man,'  as  his  second  in  a  duel ;  he  reflects  a  moment,  ex- 
cuses himself  in  a  score  of  phrases,  and,  '  without  playing  the  Hector,* 
leaves  the  bystanders  convinced  that  he  is  no  coward.  Armande  insults 
him,  then  throws  herself  in  his  arms  ;  he  politely  averts  the  storm,  de- 
clines the  reconciliation  with  the  most  loyal  frankness,  and  without  employ- 
ing a  single  falsehood,  leaves  the  spectators  convinced  that  he  is  no  boor. 
When  he  loves  Eliante,  who  prefers  Alceste,  and  whom  Alceste  may  pos- 
sibly marry,  he  proposes  to  her  with  a  complete  delicacy  and  dignity, 
without  lowering  himself,  without  recrimination,  without  wronging  himself 
or  his  friend.  When  Oronte  reads  him  a  sonnet,  he  does  not  assume  in 
the  fop  a  nature  which  he  has  not,  but  praises  the  conventional  verses  in 
conventional  language,  and  is  not  so  clumsy  as  to  display  a  poetical  judg- 
ment which  would  be  out  of  place.  He  takes  at  once  his  tone  from  the 
circumstances;  he  perceives  instantly  what  he  must  say  and  what  be  silent 
about,  in  what  degree  and  what  gradations,  what  exact  expedient  will 
reconcile  truth  and  conventional  propriety,  how  far  he  ought  to  go  or 
where  to  take  his  stand,  what  faint  line  separates  decorum  from  flattery, 
truth  from  awkwardness.  On  this  narrow  path  he  proceeds  free  from  em- 
barrassment or  mistakes,  never  put  out  of  his  way  by  the  shocks  or 
changes  of  circumstances,  never  allowing  the  calm  smile  of  politeness  to 
quit  his  lips,  never  omitting  to  receive  with  a  laugh  of  good  humour  the 
nonsense  of  his  neighbour.  This  cleverness,  entirely  French,  reconciles 
in  him  fundamental  honesty  and  worldly  breeding ;  without  it,  he  would 
be  altogether  on  the  one  side  or  the  other.  In  this  way  comedy  finds  its 
hero  half  way  between  the  roue  and  the  preacher.'' 

Thus  far  M.  Taine.  His  definition  of  the  respectable  man  Thonnete 
homme,  does  not,  in  my  opinion,  apply  to  Philinte,  but  is  quite  necessary 
in  the  present  age,  when  honnefe  homme  means  no  longer  a  well-born  man 
and  gentleman,  as  well  as  an  honest  man  ;  hence  Alceste  says  rightly  to 
Oronte,  in  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act  of  The  Misanthrope,  ''  do  not 
....  forfeit  the  reputation  you  enjoy  at  court  of  being  a  man  of  sense 
and  a  gentleman  {honncte  homme),  to  take  from  the  hands  of  a  greedy 
printer  that  of  a  ridiculous  and  wretched  author."'  In  the  beginning  of 
the  seventeenth  century,  a  certain  Mons.  Nicholas  Faret,  first  secretary  of 
the  count  of  Harcourt, — and  who  has  gone  down  to  posterity  as  an  invet- 
erate drinker,  because  his  friend  Saint- Amant  made  his  name  rhyme  with 
cabaret,  a  public  house, — wrote  a  book,  which  was  then  in  everybody's 
hand,  called  L'Honeste  homme  ou  V Art  de plaire  d  la  Cour.  This  book, 
a  sort  of  "  Handbook  of  Politeness,"  was  first  published  in  1630,  but 
several  editions  had  been  printed  since  that  time,  and  it  was  still  the 
fashionable  guide-book  of  manners  in  1666.  It  is  probable  that  Moli^re 
got  inspired  by  a  description  given  by  Faret  of  Vhonnete  homme,  when  in 
love,  which  had  been  copied  from  Lucretius,  and  that  our  author  then 
referred  to  the  original  Latin  author,  whose  fourth  canto  of  De  Natura 

VOL.    II.  L 


178  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

Rerum  he  utilizes  for  Eliante's  description  of  the  power  of  self-deception 
in  love,  in  the  fifth  scene  of  the  second  act.  Moli^re  has  also  borrowed 
some  lines  from  Lucretius,  for  the  speech  of  the  Master  of  Philosophy  in 
the  sixth  scene  of  the  second  act  of  The  Citizen  who  Apes  the  Gentleman 
(see  Vol.  III.).  But  thence  to  conclude  that  Moli^re  had  translated  Lu- 
cretius, which  translation  has  been  lost  to  posterity,  is  going  rather  too  far. 
The  only  biographer  of  Moli^re  who  mentions  this  is  Grimarest  (1659- 
1713).  who  is  far  from  trustworthy,  and  who  may  have  supposed  that  a 
whole  translation  of  Lucretius  existed,  when  only  a  few  lines  had  been 
transposed. 

It  has  been  said  that  Moli^re,  at  the  time  he  wrote  The  Misanthrope, 
endured  the  pangs  of  jealousy,  and  that  he  was  shamefully  betrayed  by 
his  wife,  but  could  not  resist  loving  her.  It  seems  more  than  likely  that, 
in  Alceste's  admiration  for  the  spoiled  beauty,  Moli^re  gave  vent  to  his 
own  feelings  of  mixed  jealousy  and  admiration  of  his  wife,  and  that  our 
author's  attempt  to  depict  the  hero  of  this  play  trying  to  free  himself  fi-om 
the  toils  of  feminine  and  personal  charms,  is  only  heightened  in  intensity 
and  force  by  an  impulse  from  within.  Still,  although  we  admit  that  these 
anecdotes  about  a  great  man  may  sometimes  give  the  complexion  of  the 
times — as,  for  example,  the  story  told  about  Shakesp)eare  and  Burbage — 
they  are  not  seldom  the  mere  groundless  gossip  of  his  professional  friends 
and  foes,  the  rakings  of  the  tap-rooms  frequented  by  the  hangers-on  of  the 
great  man,  and  even,  now  and  then  the  venomous  utterings  of  the  hero's 
enemies.  This  appears  to  have  been  the  case  with  the  accusations  brought 
against  Moli^re's  wife,  which  are  chiefly  based  on  a  libellous  pamphlet, 
published  nominally  at  Frankfort,  but  in  reality  in  Holland,  fifteen  years 
after  our  author's  death,  and  called  :  La  Fameuse  comedienne,  ou  Histoire 
de  la  Guerin,  auparavant  femme  et  veuve  de  Moliere,  and  which,  in  my 
opinion,  deserve  not  the  smallest  amount  of  credit.  (See  Vol,  I.,  Intro- 
ductory Notice  to  The  Impromptu  of  Versailles .")  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  Moliere  was  jealous.  This  cannot  be  wondered  at,  when  we  find 
that  he  was  about  twenty  years  older  than  his  wife,  who  appears  to  have 
been  rather  a  coquette,  with  a  great  amount  of  levity,  very  fond  of  admira- 
tion, and  nearly  always  moving  about  amidst  a  retinue  of  young  and  ele- 
gant courtiers,  crowding  round  the  favourite  actress  of  the  day  to  pay  her 
homage.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  Moliere  wrote  the  greater  part  of 
The  Misanthrope  during  a  season  of  illness  and  convalescence,  and  there- 
fore the  bitterness  of  his  feelings  must  have  increased  a  hundredfold  when 
he  found  himself  alone  in  his  sick-room,  and  his  youthful  spouse  gadding 
about  with  the  gaudy  and  sprightly  noblemen.  But  this  is  really  all  that 
can  be  said,  with  any  certainty,  against  Moli^re's  wife. 

It  has  also  been  stated  that  Moliere  attacked  and  satirized  several 
noblemen  in  The  Misanthrope,  and  took  literary  vengeance  upon  some  of 
the  supposed  admirers  of  his  wife,  such  as  the  Count  de  Guiche,  the  Abb^ 
de  Richelieu,  and  the  Duke  de  Lauzun,  whom  he  is  said  to  have  drawn 
in  this  play  ;  as  well  as  the  Count  de  Saint  Gilles  in  Timante  ;  Madame  de 
LoDgueville,  or  some  other  great  lady — according  to  some  even  Ma- 
dame Moliere — in  Celim^ne  :  the  Duke  de  Saint- Aignan,  in  Oronte  ;  Mo- 
li&re's  friend  Chapelle,  in  Philinte ;  Mademoiselle  Debrie  in  feliante. 
Besides  this,  characters  were  found  in  real  life  for  the  prudish  and  slander- 
ing Arsinoe,  the  ridiculous  Cleonte,  the  reasoning  Damon,  the  tiresome 
story-teller  Geralde,  the  poor  silly  woman  Belise,  the  conceited  Adraste, 
the  foolish  Cleon,  the  would-be  witty  Damis,  and  even  "  the  great  hulk- 
ing booby  of  a  viscount,"    This,  like  many  other  statements  about  our 


THE  MISANTHROPE.  1 79 

author's  presumed  personal  attacks,  may  be  probable,  but  has  really  never 
been  proved.  There  is  no  doubt  that  personalities  were  then  in  fashion, 
and  that  Moli^re  often  used,  and  even  sometimes  abused,  his  powerful 
pen  to  describe,  and  to  satarize,  his  rivals  and  his  enemies.  But  as  Urania 
says  in  The  School  for  Wives  criticised  (See  Vol.  I.,  Scene  7),  "  Let  us 
not  apply  to  ourselves  the  points  of  general  censure ;  let  us  profit  by  the 
lesson,  if  possible,  without  assuming  that  we  are  spoken  against.  All  the 
ridiculous  delineations  which  are  drawn  on  the  stage,  should  be  looked  on 
by  every  one  without  annoyance.  They  are  public  mirrors,  in  which  we 
must  never  pretend  to  see  ourselves.  To  bruit  it  about  that  we  are  of- 
fended at  being  hit,  is  to  state  openly  that  we  are  at  fault." 

Tradition  also  states  that  Moli^re  intended  Alceste  as  a  portrait  of  the 
virtuous  Charles  de  Ste.-Maure,  Duke  de  Montausier,  and  that  some  of 
our  author's  enemies  induced  this  nobleman  to  go  and  see  The  Mis- 
anthrope, but  that,  instead  of  being  offended  at  Moli^re's  sketch,  he  took 
it  as  a  compliment,  and  said  that  he  should  be  delighted  to  resemble  such 
an  honest  man  as  Alceste. 

An  attempt  has  been  made  to  draw  a  parallel  between  Moli^re's  Mis- 
anthrope and  Shakespeare's  Timon  of  Athens.  Though  the  nature  of 
their  subject  may  appear  at  the  first  glance,  similar,  nothing  could  be 
more  opposite  than  these  two  personages.  Timon  becomes  a  misanthrope 
through  sentiment  and  experience,  for  he  has  been  shamefully  abandoned 
by  his  pseudo-friends  when  in  poverty,  and  hence  his  savage  onslaughts 
on  society :  but  Alceste  was  bom  splenetic.  The  one  is  continually 
showering  gifts  and  favours  around  him,  even  on  the  most  worthless  ob- 
jects, whilst  the  other  would  only  have  assisted  a  man  if  he  were  thoroughly 
honest  and  respectable.  The  character  of  Apemantus  is,  if  anything, 
much  more  like  Alceste's  than  that  of  the  Athenian  lord  himself.  Shakes- 
peare's work  points  a  moral  at  ingratitude  and  indiscriminate  benevolence 
and  its  rewards :  Moliere's  is  a  satire  against  spleen.  Alceste  is  a  well- 
born, honourable,  and  wealthy  man,  who  rails  against  society,  with  which 
he  is  angry,  through  an  innate  and  exaggerated  sentiment  of  honour  ;  and 
although  he  is  nearly  always  right  in  principle  and  theory,  he  is  nearly 
always  wrong  in  practice  and  form.  He  is  unbendingly  strict  in  the  most 
trifling,  as  well  as  in  the  gravest,  matters.  He  is  sincere  and  earnest,  but 
blunt  and  passionate ;  and  it  is  through  this  very  passion  that  he  is  be- 
trayed into  an  exaggeration,  and  a  quarrelsomeness  which  render  him 
ridiculous  and  amusing.  His  is  a  sort  of  finnikin  fastidiousness  which  is 
entirely  absent  in  Timon.  In  fact,  Shakespeare  works  with  a  Nasmyth's 
steam  hammer  to  demolish  the  vices,  while  Moli^re,  with  due  regard  for 
the  spirit  of  his  age,  and  especially  that  of  the  King,  uses  an  ordinary  mal- 
let, with  which  he  does  nearly  as  much  execution  as  the  Englishman, 
without  exerting  himself  so  powerfully. 

It  is  doubtful  if  Moli^re  would  have  been  allowed  the  same  latitude  by 
Louis  XIV.,  as  Shakespeare  was  by  Elizabeth,  who  never  took  the  slight- 
est notice  of  his  attacks  upon  her  father,  Henry  VIII.  It  may  be  safely 
asserted  that  the  Grand  Monarque  was  not  averse  to  hear  serious  reason- 
ing railed  at  and  ridiculed,  but  that  he  would  soon  have  interfered  had  the 
prominent  vices  of  the  court  been  attacked  too  strongly.  Philinte,  the' 
worldling,  is  but  a  strong  reproduction  of  Ariste  in  The  School  for  Hus- 
bands, and  of  Chrysalde  in  The  School  for  Wives.  That  he  has  his  re- 
ward at  the  end  of  the  play — if  it  be  a  reward — by  being  made  happy  with 
the  hand  of  feliante,  while  the  Misanthrope  is  left  out  in  the  cold,  may  be 
taken  as  a  concession  of  Moliere's  to  the  prevailing  feeling  at  the  court, 


l8o  THE   MISANTHROPE. 

which  was  more  likely  to  sympathize  with  Philinte,  their  representative, 
than  to  grieve  over  the  sorrow  of  Alceste,  their  antagonist.  It  must,  how- 
ever, be  admitted  that  the  only  show  of  criticism  which  Moli^re  displayed 
against  the  person  of  the  King,  is  to  be  found  in  this  play,  because  our 
author,  in  attacking  the  men  who  filled  public  oflSces,  reflects  on  the  Mon- 
arch who  appointed  them. 

Metaphysically  considered,  Alceste  is  not  unlike  Hamlet.  Neither  of 
them  is  fit  to  live  in  this  world.  Both  feel  they  are  powerless  in  changing 
the  decrees  of  fate :  but  the  causes  which  have  produced  that  inability 
differ.  In  Alceste,  it  is  a  brusque  candour,  swooping  unexpectedly  down 
upon  meretricious  society ;  but  Hamlet  has  "  that  within  which  passeth 
show,"  "  the  time  is  out  of  joint,"  and  the  will  is  puzzled  by  thinking  of 
"  the  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  borne  no  traveller  returns." 

The  Misanthrope  has  been  attacked  and  defended  by  so  many  eminent 
men,  that  we  cannot  do  better  than  to  give  a  short  resume  of  some  of  their 
opinions,  and  let  the  reader  himself  draw  his  own  conclusions.  Let  us  be- 
gin with  those  who  attack  him.  First  we  have  the  celebrated  morose 
philosopher,  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau.  If  it  be  true  that  "  a  fellow  feeling 
makes  us  wondrous  kind,"  Rousseau  must  have  felt  some  sympathy  for 
the  tetchy,  irritable,  well-meaning  Alceste.  In  a  letter  to  d'Alembert,  he 
advances  the  following  objections  to  Moliere.s  play :  "  Alceste  is  a  sin- 
cere, estimable,  honest  man,  and  the  author  makes  him  simply  ridiculous. 
This  alone  would  be  without  excuse.  Moreover,  Alceste  is  not  a  man- 
hater  or  Misanthrope,  as  the  title  of  the  piece  implies,  for  in  that  case  none 
of  the  audience  would  like  to  meet  such  a  man,  as  the  hero  of  the  play, 
for  whom  they  feel,  at  the  bottom  of  their  heart,  a  certain  respect.  The 
virtuous  man  is  made  ridiculous  and  is  opp>osed  to  Philinte  one  of  those 
honest  and  fashionable  men  whose  maxims  are  very  much  like  those  of  a 
scoundrel ;  one  of  those  gentle  and  even-tempered  optimists  who  are  sat- 
isfied with  everybody  and  everything;  who  never  imagine  anybody  can 
be  hungry,  so  long  as  they  can  sit  down  at  a  well  furnished  table ;  who 
cannot  understand  people  to  be  poor,  because  they  have  money  in  their 
pockets,  and  who,  from  their  well-protected  house,  would  see  the  whole 
of  mankind  robbed,  pillaged,  slaughtered,  and  even  murdered,  without 
being  moved  in  the  least.  Moliere  was  wrong  in  having  sketched  the 
Misanthrope  as  a  man  who  gets  angry  about  trifles  ;  Alceste  knows  man- 
kind, and  ought  therefore  not  to  be  astonished  or  enraged  at  anything  they 
can  do,  neither  at  the  treachery  of  a  perfidious  coquette,  nor  at  the  neglect 
of  false  friends  ;  hence  Moliere  has  not  well  understood  the  character  of  the 
Misanthrope,  and  has  made  him  ridiculous  in  order  to  please  the  pub- 
lic." 

Fenelon,  in  his  Lettre  sur  F Eloquence,  also  attacks  Moliere,  because  he 
says  he  "has  a  .  .  .  fault,  which  many  clever  people  forgive  in  him,  but 
which  I  do  not,  namely,  that  he  has  made  vice  graceful,  and  virtue  se- 
verely ridiculous  and  odious.  I  can  understand  that  his  champions  will 
bring  forward  that  he  has  treated  real  honesty  in  an  honourable  manner, 
that  he  has  only  attacked  splenetic  virtue  and  detestable  hjrpocrisy  :  but, 
without  entering  into  any  long  discussions,  I  maintain  that  Plato,  and  the 
other  legislators  of  Pagan  antiquity,  would  never  have  admitted  in  their 
republics  such  a  play  about  morals.'' 

Augustus  William  Schlegel,  in  his  Course  of  Lectures  (XXI.)  on  Dra- 
matic Art  and  Literature,  says — "  In  The  Misanthrope  ....  the  action 
which  is  also  poorly  invented,  is  found  to  drag  heavily ;  for,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  scenes  of  a  more  sprightly  description,  it  consists  alto- 


THE   MISANTHROPE.  l8l 

gether  of  discourses  formally  introduced  and  supported,  while  the  stag- 
nation is  only  partially  concealed  by  the  art  employed  on  the  details  of 
versification  and  expression.  In  a  word,  these  pieces  are  too  didactic,  too 
expressly  instructive ;  whereas,  in  comedy,  the  spectator  should  only  be 
instructed  incidentally,  and,  as  it  were,  without  its  appearing  to  have  been 
intended As  is  well  known  T/ie  Misani/irope  was  at  first  very  cold- 
ly received,  because  it  was  even  less  amusing  than  TAe  School  for  Wives 
and  The  Blue-Stockings,  the  action  is  less  rapid,  or  rather  there  is  none  at 
all;  and  there  is  a  great  want  of  coherence  between  the  meagre  incidents 
which  give  only  an  apparent  life  to  the  dramatic  movement, — the  quarrel 
with  Oronte  respecting  the  sonnet,  and  its  adjustment ;  the  decision  of  the 
law-suit,  which  is  ever  being  brought  forward ;  the  unmasking  of  Celi- 
mene,  through  the  vanity  of  the  two  Marquises,  and  the  jealousy  of  Ar- 
sinoe.  Besides  all  this,  the  general  plot  is  not  even  probable.  It  is 
framed  with  a  view  to  exhibit  the  thorough  delineation  of  a  charactei ; 
but  a  character  discloses  itself  much  more  in  its  relations  with  others  than 
immediately.  How  comes  Alceste  to  have  chosen  Philinte  for  a  friend 
a  man  whose  principles  were  directly  the  reverse  of  his  own  ?  How  comes 
he  also  to  be  enamoured  of  a  coquette,  who  has  nothing  amiable  in  her 
character,  and  who  entertains  us  merely  by  her  scandal  ?  We  might  well 
say  of  this  Celimene,  without  exaggeration,  that  there  is  not  one  good 
point  in  her  whole  composition.  In  a  character  like  that  of  Alceste,  love 
is  not  a  fleeting  sensual  impulse,  but  a  serious  feeling  arising  from  a  want 
of  a  sincere  mental  union.  His  dislike  of  flattery,  falsehood,  and  mali- 
cious scandal,  which  always  characterize  the  conversation  of  Celimene, 
breaks  forth  so  incessantly,  that  we  feel  the  first  moment  he  heard  her 
open  her  lips,  ought  to  have  driven  him  for  ever  from  her  society.  Finally 
the  subject  is  ambiguous,  and  that  is  its  greatest  fault.  The  limits  within 
which  Alceste  is  in  the  right,  and  beyond  which  he  is  in  the  wrong,  it  would 
be  no  easy  matter  to  fix,  and  I  am  afraid  the  poet  himself  did  not  here  see 
very  clearly  what  he  would  be  at.  Philinte,  however,  with  his  illusory 
justification  of  the  way  of  the  world  and  his  phlegmatic  resignation,  he 
paints  throughout  as  the  intelligent  and  amiable  man.  As  against  the 
elegant  Celimene,  Alceste  is  most  decidedly  in  the  right,  and  only  in  the 
wrong  in  the  inconceivable  weakness  of  his  conduct  towards  her.  He  is 
in  the  right  in  his  complaints  of  the  corruption  of  the  social  constitution ; 
the  facts,  at  least,  which  he  adduces,  are  disputed  by  nobody.  He  is  in 
the  wrong,  however,  in  delivering  his  sentiments  with  so  much  violence, 
and  at  an  unseasonable  time  ;  but  as  he  cannot  prevail  upon  himself  to 
assume  the  dissimulation  which  is  necessary  to  be  well  received  in  the 
world,  he  is  perfectly  in  the  right  in  preferring  solitude  to  society.'" 

The  defenders  of  Moliere's  views  are  numerous.  We  shall  take  the 
oldest  of  his  champions  first,  viz. :  Donneau  de  Vise,  a  former  enemy, 
who  had  attacked  The  School  for  Wives  in  his  Zelinde,  but  who  had  seen 
his  mistake,  most  probably  because  a  play  of  his.  La  Mere  Coquette,  had 
been  performed  on  the  5th  of  October  of  the  year  before,  at  the  theatre 
of  the  Palais-Royal.  He  wrote  a  letter  in  defence  of  the  piece,  which 
was  printed  with  the  original  edition,  and  has  always  since  been  published 
with  it.  He  therein  says,  "  Before  we  go  to  the  foundation  of  the  comedy, 
it  is  proper  to  see  what  was  the  author's  aim."'  '"'  That  the  author's  de- 
sign being  to  please,  and  the  comedy  having  pleased,  the   critics   cannot 

say  he  has  done  ill It  was  not  his  intention  to  write  a  comedy  full 

of  incidents,  but  only  a  play  wherein  he  might  speak  against  the  manners 
of  the  age ;"  hence  he  chose  a  Misanthrope  for  his  hero,  whose  ''  in- 


1 82  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

firmity  sets  off  his  friend's  (Philinte)  wisdom."  He  further  says,  that  the 
choice  of  Celim^ne,  a  woman  given  to  slander,  and  of  a  man  who  hates 
mankind,  as  mouthpieces  for  railing  at  the  manners  of  the  age,  is  very  in- 
genious ;  for  what  the  hero  may  forget  the  coquette  will  add ;  praises  the 
skilful  opening  of  the  piece,  the  scene  between  Oronte  and  Alceste,  and 
adds,  ''  the  sonnet  is  not  bad  according  to  the  manner  of  writing  now-a- 
days  ;  and  those  who  love  what  we  men  call  points  or  conclusions,  rather 
than  good  sense,  will  certainly  like  it.  Nay,  I  saw  some,  at  the  first  repre- 
sentation of  this  piece,  who  exposed  their  own  character  to  the  ridicule 
of  this  scene,  whilst  it  was  being  acted,  for  they  cried  out  that  the  sonnet 
was  good,  until  the  Misanthrope  had  criticised  it,  and  then  they  were  all 
confounded."  De  Vise  praises  also  the  way  in  which  Moli^re  delineates 
the  power  of  love,  as  seen  in  Alceste ;  speaks  highly  of  the  scene  between 
Celim^ne  and  Arsino^,  and  the  "  vigour  with  which  the  character  of  the 
hero  is  maintained,"  without  being  made  ridiculous;  considers  that  the 
part  of  Philinte  is  reasonable,  and  that  every  one  ought  to  imitate  him, 
and  finishes  thus :  "  In  this  comedy  backbiting  coquettes,  after  the  ex- 
ample of  C^lim^ne,  seeing  that  they  cannot  avoid  encounters  that  will 
make  them  contemptible,  ought  to  learn  not  to  rail  at  their  best  friends 
behind  their  backs.  False  prudes  ought  to  learn,  that  their  grimaces  are 
of  no  use ;  and  that  though  they  were  indeed  as  sage  as  they  would  be 
thought,  they  would  nevertheless  be  blamed  so  long  as  they  set  up  for 
prudes.  I  say  nothing  of  the  Marquises  ;  I  think  them  the  most  incorri- 
gible of  all ;  and  there  are  so  many  things  in  them  still  to  be  found  fault 
with,  that  everybody  owns  they  may  yet  for  a  long  time  afford  matter  for 
ridicule,  though  they  themselves  are  far  from  allowing  this  to  be  true. 

Voltaire,  though  calling  The  Misanthrope  Moliere's  masterpiece,  pre- 
tends that  the  intrigue  hangs  fire  now  and  then  ;  that  the  conversation  is 
sparkling,  but  not  always  necessary  to  the  action  ;  and  finally,  that  the 
ending,  though  well  managed,  leaves  the  spectator  indifferent,  for  he  does 
not  care  whether  the  Misanthrope  marries  the  coquette  or  not. 

Chamfort.  in  the  Eloge  de  Moliere,  says  : — "  If  ever  any  comic  author 
has  proved  that  he  understood  the  system  of  society,  it  is  Moh^re  in  The 
Misanthrope.  There,  whilst  showing  its  abuses,  he  teaches  at  what  cost  a 
wise  man  should  obtain  the  advantages  which  it  grants  ;  that,  in  a  system 
of  union  based  upon  mutual  indulgence,  perfect  virtue  is  out  of  place 
amongst  men,  and  torments  itself  without  correcting  them.  It  is  a  gold 
which  needs  alloy  to  become  firm  and  be  of  much  use  to  society  ;  but,  at 
the  same  time,  the  author  shows,  by  the  constant  superiority  of  Alceste 
over  all  the  other  personages,  that  virtue,  in  spite  of  the  ridicule  caused 
by  his  austerity,  eclipses  all  that  surrounds  it ;  and  that,  though  gold  has 
been  alloyed,  it  is  yet  the  costliest  of  metals." 

La  Harpe,  ia  his  Cours  de  Litterature, — a  work  formerly  too  much 
lauded,  and  at  present  too  much  neglected, — defends  Moli^re  against 
Rousseau ;  says  that  the  dramatist  does  not  ridicule  Alceste's  honesty  and 
sincerity,  but  the  excess  of  those  qualities,  and  that  every  exaggeration 
belongs  to  the  domain  of  comedy;  that  whenever  Alceste  attacks  slander, 
nobody  feels  inclined  to  laugh,  but  that  when  he  states  that  he  should  like 
to  lose  his  lawsuit,  for  the  fun  of  the  thing,  everybody  laughs  at  him,  and 
justly  so.  Sincerity  is  a  good  thing,  but  it  does  not  give  a  man  the  right 
to  become  ridiculous  with  impunity ;  hence  Moli^re  has  done  rightly  in 
even  attempting  to  teach  honesty  not  to  exceed  the  ordinary  hmits  of 
moderation.  Rousseau  himself  admits  that  "  people  feel  at  the  bottom 
of  thsir  heart  a  certain  respect"  for  Alceste,  though  he  professes  faults, 


THE  MISANTHROPE.  183 

at  which  they  justly  laugh.  The  accusation  that  Moli^re  has  not  under- 
stood the  character  of  a  Misanthrope,  because  the  latter  does  not  always 
rage  against  public  vices,  and  feels  the  sting  of  personal  offences,  is  un- 
just, because  man  remains  always  a  man.  The  accusation  that  Moliere 
sacrificed  everything  to  the  necessity  of  making  the  pit  laugh  is  unjust, 
because  he  attacked  only  what  was  laughable,  and,  like  Horace,  said  the 
truth  whilst  laughing.  As  to  Rousseau's  hard  words  against  Philinte, 
whom  he  calls  "  a  scoundrel,''  "a  gentle  and  even-tempered  optimist," 
he  appears  to  forget  that  scoundrels  are  never  optimists,  but  pessimists, 
plausibly  assuming  that  the  world  could  not  be  worse,  and  seemingly  so 
much  the  more  severe  in  morals  and  honesty  as  they  never  attempt  to 
bring  them  into  practice. 

Nisard,  a  well  known  modern  French  literary  critic,  defends  T^e  Mis- 
anthrope, and  states  that  this  play  cannot  be  analyzed  nor  reproduced 
with  any  chance  of  success ;  that  the  action  takes  place  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  a  heartless  coquette  of  fashion,  who  has  many  gallants.  Only 
one  of  them,  Alceste,  really  loves  her.  He  is  not  wrong  in  despising 
men,  but  wrong  in  stating  his  feelings  openly,  when  he  discovers  at  last 
that  he  is  betrayed.  This  is  the  whole  plot  of  the  piece,  and  the  situa- 
tions are  just  as  commonplace,  even  if  they  do  exist.  The  characters 
unfold  themselves.  Alceste  has  a  lawsuit,  but  he  will  not  go  and  visit  his 
judge  ;  he  has  a  duel,  because  he  does  not  wish  to  abandon  his  reputation 
as  z.Vi  honncte  homme ;  Celim^ne  is  a  flirt  and  triumphs  over  the  prude 
Arsinoe,  but  is  punished  by  Alceste.  And  this  is  the  peculiarity  of  The 
Afisanthrope.  Every  one  is  punished  by  his  or  her  own  vices  or  faults ; 
and  even  Alceste,  though  he  is  too  honest  to  deserve  marrying  a  coquette, 
is  in  perpetual  opposition  during  the  whole  play,  receives  a  great  shock  at 
the  end,  and  all  this,  because,  although  an  honest  man,  he  thinks  he  is 
the  only  honest  man  in  the  world. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  posterity  is  represented  by  foreigners :  let  us 
listen  for  a  few  minutes  to  English,  German,  and  Swiss  critics  on  this 
play. 

William  Hazlitt  says,  in  his  Lectures  on  Wit  and  Humour — "With 
respect  to  his  two  most  laboured  comedies,  the  '  Tartuffe'  and  *  Misan- 
thrope,' I  confess  I  find  them  rather  hard  to  get  through.  They  have 
much  of  the  improbability  and  extravagance  of  the  others,  united  with 
the  endless  common-place  prosing  of  French  declamation.  What  can 
exceed,  for  example,  the  absurdity  of  the  Misanthrope,  who  leaves  his 
mistress  after  every  proof  of  her  attachment  and  constancy,  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  she  will  not  submit  to  the  technical  formality  of  going  to 
live  with  him  in  a  wilderness?  The  characters,  again,  which  Celim&ne 
gives  of  her  female  friends,  near  the  opening  of  the  play,  are  admirable 
satires  (as  good  as  Pope's  characters  of  women),  but  not  exactly  in  the 
spirit  of  comic  dialogue,'' 

Prescott,  in  his  Biographical  and  Critical  Miscellanies,  has  a  very  good 
Essay  on  Moliere,  in  which  he  says  :  "  We  are  now  arrived  at  that  period 
of  Moliere's  career  when  he  composed  his  '  Misanthrope,'  a  play  which 
some  critics  have  esteemed  his  master-piece,  and  which  all  concur  in  admir- 
ing as  one  of  the  noblest  productions  of  the  modern  drama.  Its  literary- 
execution,  too,  of  paramount  importance  in  the  eye  of  a  French  critic,  is 
more  nicely  elaborated  than  any  other  of  the  pieces  of  Moliere,  if  we 
except  the  Tartufe,  and  its  didactic  dialogue  displays  a  maturity  of 
thought  equal  to  vi'hat  is  to  be  found  in  the  best  satires  of  Boileau.  It  is 
the  very  didactic  tone  of  this  comedy,  indeed,  which,  combined  with  its 


lS4  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

want  of  eager,  animating  interest,  made  it  less  popular  on  its  representa- 
tion than  some  of  his  inferior  pieces."  With  regard  to  Moliere's  sketch- 
ing himself  and  his  wife  in  the  roles  of  Alceste  and  Celimene,  Prescott 
comments  thus  upon  it :  "  The  respective  parts  which  they  performed  in 
this  piece,  corresponds  precisely  with  their  respective  situations  ;  that  of 
Celimene,  a  fascinating  capricious  coquette,  insensible  to  every  remon- 
strance, and  selfishly  bent  on  the  gratification  of  her  own  apf>etites ;  and 
that  of  Alceste,  perfectly  sensible  of  the  duplicity  of  his  mistress,  whom 
he  vainly  hopes  to  reform,  and  no  less  so  of  the  unworthiness  of  his  own 
passion,  from  which  he  as  vainly  hopes  to  extricate  himself!  The  coinci- 
dences are  too  exact  to  be  wholly  accidental." 

John  Sterling,  in  his  critical  essay  on  Characteristics  of  German  Genius, 
says  :  "The  genius  of  Moli^rerose  above  the  pitch  of  liis  contemporaries, 
and  in  spite  of  seeming  destiny,  made  him  a  great  original  painter  of  life, 
and  a  worthy  companion  of  Montaigne  and  Rabelais,  who  had  preluded, 
somewhat  as  Chaucer  among  us,  to  the  glories  of  a  later  age.  His  Mis- 
anthrope  is  more  truly  Shakespearean,  more  simply,  deeply  drawn  from  the 
realities  of  the  human  soul,  than  anything  we  have  seen  of  the  professedly 
Shakespearean  school  now  shedding  blood  by  pailfuls  on  the  Parisian  stage. 
This  play,  in  iacf,  anticipates  Rousseau,  and  stands  in  a  very  singular 
relation  between  Hamlet  and  Faust ;  and  in  like  manner  Tartuffe  strikes 
the  key-note  of  much  that  distinguishes  Voltaire," 

A  Swiss  Uterary  critic,  M.  E.  Rambert,  in  his  work  Corneille,  Racine 
et  Moliere,  writes  that,  in  poets  of  the  second  order,  sjseech  kills  the 
action  :  in  Moli^re,  on  the  contrary,  it  serves  and  vivifies  it ;  that  it  is  true 
that  there  is  in  The  Misanthrope  a  moral  question,  but  this  always  hap- 
pens in  lofty  dramatic  poetry  ;  that  no  one  can  analyze  a  fictitious  or  real 
character,  without  stumbling  upon  some  philosophic  or  moral  problem, 
which  ought  to  arise  from  the  character  of  the  hero.  He  further  affirms 
that  Philinte  is  not  created  only  to  give  a  reply,  but  that  he  is  the  model  of 
a  true  friend,  who  bears  all  Alceste's  whims  and  rebuffs.  He  also  prefers 
Alceste  to  Tartuffe,  because  the  first  is  one  of  those  who  possess  all  the 
attributes  of  humanity  ;  says  Alceste  is  superior  to  Shakespeare's  Timon 
—whom  he  calls  "  a  Job  on  his  dunghill,  but  a  Job  full  of  hatred  and 
bile" — because  Alceste's  hatred  is  akin  to  love,  Timon's  only  humiliation 
and  thirst  for  vengeance  ;  believes  that  The  Misanthrope  produces  in  us 
a  poetical  impression,  and  contains  not  a  satire,  but  a  lesson,  which  leaves 
us  in  thought,  but  not  haunted,  as  it  were,  by  one  idea,  which  becomes 
fatiguing.  M.  Rambert  ends  lay  stating,  that,  after  the  troubles  of  the 
Fronde,  society  had  become  philosophical,  and  liked  to  sjjeculate  on  ab- 
struse questions  of  morality  ;  hence  the  appearance  of  La  Rochefoucauld's 
Maxims — of  which  the  first  edition  was  published  in  1665 — and  hence  the 
Misanthrope,  who  gets  angry  at  the  wickedness  of  men.  whilst  the  noble 
moralist  judges  them,  despises  them,  but  remains  cool  all  the  time. 

Goethe,  in  his  Conversations  with  Eckermann  (1825),  says  :  "  MoliSre  is 
so  great,  that  one  is  astonished  anew  every  time  one  reads  him.  He  is  a 
man  by  himself— his  pieces  border  on  tragedy ;  they  are  apprehensive, 
and  no  one  has  the  courage  to  imitate  them."  And  in  1827,  the  great 
German  says  :  "  The  Misanthrope,  which  I  read  over  and  over  again,  as 
one  of  my  most  favourite  pieces,  is  repugnant  to  him  fSchlegel)."  "  It  is 
not  to  be  denied."  continues  he,  "  that  Schlegel  knows  a  great  deal,  and 
one  is  almost  terrified  at  his  extraordinary  attainments  and  his  extensive 
reading.  But  this  is  not  enough.  All  the  learning  in  the  world  is  still  no 
judgment     His  criticism  is  completely  one-sided,  because  in  all  theatri- 


THE  MISANTHROPE.  185 

cal  pieces  he  merely  regards  the  skeleton  of  the  plot  and  arrangement, 
and  only  points  out  small  points  of  resemblance  to  great  predecessors, 
without  troubling  himself  in  the  least  as  to  what  the  author  brings  forward 
of  graceful  life  and  the  culture  of  a  high  soul.  But  of  what  use  are  all 
the  arts  of  a  talent  if  we  do  not  find  in  a  theatrical  piece  an  amiable  or  a 
great  personality  of  the  author.  This  alone  influences  the  cultivation  of 
the  people.'' 

Paul  Lindau,  a  living  German  critic  of  some  celebrity,  and  who  has 
written  a  Life  of  Moliere,  says,  that  "  when  our  author  wrote  this  play,  he 
was  forty-four  years  old ;  his  friend  Racine  had  betrayed  him  ;  his  patro- 
ness, the  Queen-Mother  was  dead  ;  his  enemies  at  Court  had  prevented 
the  representation  of  the  Tartuffe  ;  his  youthful  wife  gave  him  reason  to 
be  jealous  ;  he  had  been  ill  for  two  months ;  and  yet,  in  spite  of  all  that, 
he  wrote  The  Misanthrope^  In  this  play,  he  attacks  the  court,  its  hol- 
lowness,  its  empty  glitter  and  heads  ;  for  in  spite  of  his  admiration  for 
Louis  XIV.,  Moliere  did  not  spare  the  courtiers.  Amidst  the  splendour 
of  Versailles,  its  triumphant  paeans,  its  sparkling  fountains,  shaded  walks 
and  rustling  trees,  where  puppets,  in  velvet  and  silk,  jump  about  and 
dance  and  sing,  and  think  not  of  the  morrow,  our  Moralist  appears  and 
asks  himself — How  are  all  these  enjoyments  obtained?  And  the  answer 
is  :  "  By  lies  and  hypocrisy."  The  philosopher  looks  underneath  the 
masks  and  the  paint,  and  beholds  the  spectre  of  misery.  He  warns  men 
to  become  sincere,  honest,  and  true,  for  the  earth  trembles  under  their 
feet,  the  foundations  of  society  are  undermined  by  the  worm  of  falsehood, 
thunder  rolls  in  the  distance  and  will  break  out  a  hundred  years  later. 
Alceste  is  the  precursor  of  a  threatening  social  revolution  ;  these  feelings 
have  unconsciously  moved  him  to  speak ;  hence  his  dislike  and  hatred  for 
lies  and  liars,  and,  "  as  all  men  are  hars,"  the  cause  of  his  being  a  Misan- 
thrope. 

In  the  preface  to  this  translation  (Vol.  I.,)  I  have  stated  that  Philinte 
"pourtrays  quiet  common  sense,  amiability,  intelligence,  instruction, 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  spirit  of  refined  criticism."  He  possesses 
rather  too  much  of  all  these  qualities,  which  thus  become  faults.  I  ima- 
gine that  Moliere  clearly  indicates  that  Philinte  has  a  far  greater  contempt 
for  men  than  Alceste.  The  latter  is  very  loud  in  all  his  denunciations 
against  wickedness  ;  his  passion  for  sincerity  often  carries  him  to  ridicu- 
lous extremes,  but  amidst  all  his  vapouring,  we  feel  that  he  is  angry  with 
rampant  falsehood  and  deceit,  but  not  that  he  hates  his  fellow-creatures  : 
in  fact,  his  very  rage  proves  the  contrary.  Philinte  has  over  much  "  quiet 
common  sense  ;'  he  "  treats  the  man  of  worth  and  the  fop  alike ;"  he  has 
too  much  "  amiability,"  for  he  pays  compliments  to  old  Emilia,  to  Dori- 
las,  to  Oronte  about  his  sonnet ;  he  shows  his  "  spirit  of  refined  criticism  " 
by  stating  that  "  whatever  he  may  discover,  at  any  moment,  people  do  not 
.see  him  in  a  rage  ,  .  .  that  he  takes  men  quietly  just  as  they  are  ;"  "  that 
his  mind  is  not  more  shocked  at  seeing  a  man  a  rogue,  unjust,  or  selfish, 
than  at  seeing  vultures  eager  for  prey,  mischievous  apes,  or  fury-lashed 
wolves."  When  he  hears  Alceste  thundering  against  Celimene,  Acaste 
and  Clitandre  slandering  their  acquaintances,  he  proves  his  "  knowledge 
of  the  world"  by  coolly  asking  his  friend  why  he  takes  such  a  great  in- 
terest in  those  people.  He  never  blames  nor  admires  anything,  except 
with  some  feeble  adjectives.  When  Eliante  states  that  she  esteems  Al- 
ceste, he  only  expresses  his  astonishment  at  seeing  him  in  love.  When 
his  friend's  heart  is  torn  by  jealousy,  he  can  say  nothing  warmer  than 
that    "a  letter  may  sometimes  deceive  by  appearances,  and  not  be  as 


1 86  THE   MISANTHROPE. 

guilty  as  you  think."  His  "intelligence"  is  as  characteristic  as  all  his 
other  qualities ;  he  first  tells  his  friend  that  the  sincere  Eiiante  has  some 
inclination  for  him,  and  then,  when  Eiiante  informs  Philinte  that  she 
might  be  induced  to  receive  Alceste's  addresses,  he  coolly  informs  her 
tliat  in  case  his  friend  does  not  answer  her  love,  he  would  only  be  too 
happy  to  have  her  affection  transferred  to  himself.  When  in  the  last 
scene  Eiiante  offers  him  her  hand,  he  seems  to  get  excited,  and  ex- 
claims that  he  "  could  sacrifice  my  (his)  life  and  soul  for  it ;"  but  the 
lukewarmness  he  has  displayed  in  his  courtship,  during  the  whole  play, 
proves  his  excitement  to  be  abnormal.  It  is  true  that  he  bears  with 
the  rebuffs  of  Alceste,  but  this  is  not  out  of  friendship,  but  simply  because 
he  is  too  amiable ;  hence  it  would  be  too  much  trouble  to  argue.  He 
has  no  warm  blood  coursing  through  his  veins.  I  said  just  now  that 
Philinte  had  a  far  greater  contempt  for  men  than  Alceste.  I  do  not  mean 
that  he  shows  this  contempt  openly.  But  the  man  to  whom  good  or  evil 
is  theoretically  alike,  to  whom  all  men  are  the  same,  and  who  is  the  same 
to  all  men,  is  the  gfreatest  Misanthrope  that  ever  existed,  for  he  is  above 
or  below  humanity.  It  is  not  necessary  that  Philinte  should  have  acted 
up  to  his  principles ;  his  very  contempt  for  men  forbids  such  a  thing  as 
action.  What  would  be  the  good  of  it?  His  feebly  beating  heart  cannot 
contain  such  a  feeling  as  healthy  hatred  or  even  love.  I  imagine  that  he 
must  have  uttered  his  speeches  with  an  affected  drawl,  as  painful  for  him 
to  produce  as  for  his  audience  to  listen  to.  He  is  the  real  prototype  of 
the  nil  admirari  school ;  he  is  no  "  scoundrel,"  as  Rousseau  says,  for  he 
has  no  passions,  good  or  evil :  he  does  not  play  the  fool,  for  it  requires 
not  an  intelligent,  but  a  wise  man,  to  play  the  fool ;  he  is  the  chief  of  the 
fococuranti,  who  pursue  the  even  tenor  of  their  ways,  without  being 
moved  or  stirred  by  anything,  who  are  too  critically  refined  ever  to  do  an 
evil  deed  or  to  admire  a  noble  action  ;  the  worthy  ancestor  of  those /^///j 
creves,  who  strut  languidly  through  life  with  their  dainty  dress  and  man- 
ners, with  their  eternal  grin,  their  want  of  heart  and  patriotism,  and  their 
never  varying  answer,  pas  si  bete. 

In  the  third  volume  of  the  Select  Comedies  of  M.  de  Moli^re,  London, 
1732,  The  Misanthrope  is  dedicated  to  the  Duke  of  Montagu,  under 
the  name  of  The  Man-Hater  in  the  following  words : — 

The  Misanthrope  of  Molierk  in  French  and  English,  assumes  the  honour  of 
appearing  in  the  World  under  your  Grace's  Patronage.  The  Translator  doubts 
not  but  Your  Grace  will  be  the  first  to  forgive  what  has  the  Face  of  monstrous  Im- 
priety,  his  dedicating  the  Man-hater  to  the  most  humane  Man  in  England. 

Your  Grace  very  well  knows  that  this  Play  has  always  bore  the  Character, 
amongst  Men  of  Taste  and  Judgment,  of  being  the  most  finished  Piece  of  this 
Author,  in  which  are  united  the  utmost  Efforts  of  Genius  and  Art. 

The  Subject,  My  Lord,  is  single,  and  the  Unities  exactly  observ'd.     Theprinci- 

?al  Character  is  strong,  and  distinguish'd  with  the  boldest  Strokes  of  a  masterly 
'encil;  'tis  well  preserv'd,  and  throughout  intirely  uniform.  The  under  Charac- 
ters are  equally  well  drawn,  and  admirably  chose  to  cast  each  their  proper  De- 
gree of  Light  upon  the  Chief  Figure  :  The  Scenes  and  Incidents  are  so  contriv'd 
and  conducted  as  to  diversify  the  main  Character,  and  set  it  in  all  the  different 
Points  of  Light  one  can  wish  to  see  it  in.  The  Sentiments  are  not  only  proper,  but 
strong  and  nervous,  and  the  whole  Piece  so  fraught  with  good  Sense,  that  'twere 
hard  to  find  an  indifferent  Line  in  it.  So  just  is  the  Observation  of  Rapin,  that  the 
Misanthrope  is  the  most  finish'd,  and  withal  the  most  singular  Character  that  ever 
appear'd  on  the  Stage. 

Not  but  that  the  Title  o^ Man-Hater,  My  Lord,  has  been  famous  in  the  World 
for  many  Centuries,  and  is  as  well  known  as  the  Name  of  Timon  of  Athens  ;  with- 
out any  impeachment  of  what  the  French  Critic  has  said  of  the  singularity  of  our 
MisantHrope  ;  tor  the  Character  of  the  antient  Man-Hater  had  litde  uncommon  in 


''  THE   MISANTHROPE.  1 87 

it,  it  took  its  Rise  merely  from  personal  lU-iisage  and  Disappointment,  and  was 
no  more  Strange  than  that  one  who  suffers  by  Excess  of  Good-nature  and  Credulity, 
shou'd  run  into  the  other  Extreme  of  being  excessively  revengeful  and  suspicious. 

Whereas  Moliere's  Mem-Hater  owes  his  Character  to  an  over-rigid  Virtue, 
which  CDu'd  give  no  Quarter  to  the  Vices  of  Mankind  ;  to  a  Sincerity,  particularly, 
which  disdain'd  that  undistinguishing  Complaisance,  those  surfeiting  expressions 
of  Kindness  to  all  in  common,  which  leave  Men  no  Language  to  express  Approba- 
tion and  Friendship  to  the  wise  and  virtuous,  but  what  is  prostituted  to  flatter 
Fools  and  Knaves  :  so  that  AUestes  hates  men  not  to  injure,  but  to  avoid  them. 

It  must  at  the  same  time,  be  confess'd.  My  Lord,  that  Moliere  drew  not  this 
Character  for  Imitation.  Had  he  done  so,  he  wou'd  made  him  only  a  good-natured, 
brave,  and  generous  Plain-dealer,  not  a  Man- Hater  :  as  far  from  the  Churlishness 
oi  Alcestes  as  from  the  Over-civility  o{  Philintes.  He  wou'd  have  drawn  him  se- 
vere, but  not  Cynical  ;  an  Enemy  to  Men's  Vices  but  not  to  their  Persons  ;  inflexi- 
bly virtuous,  but  not  ill-natur'd  ;  reserved,  yet  not  unsociable  ;  sincere  with  good 
Manners.  In  short,  he  wou'd  have  made  him  a  Montagu.  The  character  had 
then  been  unexceptionable — I  am.  My  Lord,  Your  Grace's  most  Faithful,  most 
Obedient  Humble  Servant,  THE  TRANSLATOR. 

An  author  of  the  end  of  last  century,  Fabre  d'6glantine,  who  devoted 
his  time  partly  to  politics  and  partly  to  literature,  wrote  a  play,  The 
Philinte  of  Moliere,  in  which  he  made  of  Philinte  an  odious  and  miser- 
able egotist,  and  of  Alceste  an  exagerated  philanthropist.  Geoffroy,  a 
celebrated  French  critic,  said  that  The  Philinte  compared  to  The  Mis- 
anthrope, was  like  anarchy  in  comparison  with  a  good  government. 
Several  other  Misanthropes  have  also  been  attempted  on  the  French 
stage.  Brecourt  (See  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Impromptu  of  Ver- 
sailles, Vol.  I.,)  wrote  a  comedy  in  one  act,  called  Timon,  first  performed 
on  the  I2th  of  August,  1684 ;  and  Delisle  wrote  a  three-act  play,  called 
Timon  the  Misanthrope,  first  brought  out  on  the  2d  of  January,  1782, 
and  in  which  an  ass  is  changed  into  harlequin,  and  gives  lessons  of  kindness 
and  wisdom  to  his  former  master  Timon. 

In  English,  part  of  The  Misanthrope  has  been  borrowed  by  Wycherley 
for  The  Plain  Dealer,  of  which  Manley  and  Olivia  are  decided  imitations 
of  Alceste  and  Celim^ne,  and  in  which  one  scene  is  imitated  from  The 
School  for  Wives  criticised  (^^^  Introductory  Notice  to  The  School  for 
Wives  criticised.  Vol.  I.).  Baker,  in  his  ''  Biographia  Dramatica,"  most 
amusingly  says : — "  The  Misanthrope  (of  Moliere),  and  other  things, 
seem  to  have  been  in  Wycherley's  mind  when  he  traced  his  characters  ; 
but  when  subjects  are  so  well  handled,  it  is  but  mean  cavilling  to  say  so 
much  about  it,  and  in  revenge,  if  he  had  recourse  to  French  writers, 
English  writers  have  had  recourse  to  him."  M.  Taine  has  another  opin- 
ion of  Wycherley  and  his  play,  and  I  entirely  agree  with  him.  He  says 
in  the  History  of  English  Literature: — '' If  he  (Wycherley)  translates 
the  part  of  Moliere,  he  wipes  out  at  one  stroke  the  manners  of  a  great 
lady,  the  woman's  delicacy,  the  tact  of  the  lady  of  the  house,  the  polite- 
ness, the  refined  air,  the  superiority  of  wit  and  knowledge  of  the  world, 
in  order  to  substitute  for  them  the  impudence  and  deceit  of  a  foul- 
mouthed  courtezan.  .  .  A  certain  gift  hovers  over  all — namely,  vigour.  .  . 
He  is  a  realist,  not  on  set  purpose,  as  the  realist  of  our  day,  but  naturally. 

.  .  .  Our  modem  nerves  could  not  endure  the  portrait  Olivia  draws  of 
Manley.  .  .  The  woman's  independence  is  like  a  professed  courtezan's. 

,  .  .  Manley  is  copied  after  Alceste  .  .  .  and  is  not  a  courtier  but  a  ship- 
captain,  with  the  bearing  of  the  sailor  of  the  time,  his  cloak  stained  with 
tar,  and  smelling  of  brandy,  ready  with  blows  or  foul  oaths,  calling  those 
he  came  across  dogs  and  slaves,  and  when  they  displeased  him,  kicking 
them  down  stairs  .  .  .  Wycherley  took  to  himself  in  his  dedication  the 


1 88  THE  MISANTHROPE. 

title  of  his  hero,  Plain  Dealer  ;  he  fancied  he  had  drawn  the  portrait  of 
a  frank,  honest  man  ...  he  had  only  given  .  .  .  the  model  of  an  unre- 
served and  energetic  brute." 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Drama,  says, — "  The  Plain  Dealer 
is,  indeed,  imitated  from  Moli^re ;  but  the  principal  character  has  more 
the  force  of  a  real  portrait,  and  is  better  contrasted  with  the  perverse, 
bustling,  masculine,  pettyfogging,  and  litigious  character  of  Widow 
Blackacre,  than  Alceste  is  with  any  character  of  The  Misanthrope." 

The  late  Lord  Macaulay,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Comic  Dramatists  of  the 
Restoration,  uses  the  following  words  about  Wycherley's  Plain  Dealer  : 
— ''  Moli^re  exhibited  in  his  Misanthrope  a  pure  and  noble  mind,  which 
had  been  sorely  vexed  by  the  sight  of  perfidy  and  malevolence,  disguised 
under  forms  of  politeness.  As  every  extreme  naturally  generates  its  con- 
trary, Alceste  adopts  a  standard  of  good  and  evil  directly  opposed  to  that 
of  the  society  which  surrounds  him.  Courtesy,  seems  to  him  a  vice ;  and 
those  stern  virtues  which  are  neglected  by  the  fops  and  coquettes  of  Paris 
become  too  exclusively  the  objects  of  his  veneration.  He  is  often  to 
blame;  he  is  often  ridiculous;  but  he  is  always  a  good  man;  and  the 
feeling  which  he  inspires  is  regret  that  a  person  so  estimable  should  be  so 
unamiable.  Wycherley  borrowed  Alceste,  and  turned  him — we  quote  the 
words  of  so  lenient  a  critic  as  Mr.  Leigh  Hunt — into  '  a  ferocious  sensual- 
ist, who  believed  himself  as  great  a  rascal  as  he  thought  everybody  else.' 
The  surliness  of  Moli^re's  hero  is  copied  and  caricatured.  But  the 
most  nauseous  libertinism  and  the  most  dastardly  fraud  are  substituted 
for  the  purity  and  integrity  of  the  original.  And,  to  make  the  whole  com- 
plete, Wycherley  does  not  seem  to  have  been  aware  that  he  was  not  draw- 
ing the  portrait  of  an  eminently  honest  man.  So  depraved  was  his  moral 
taste,  that,  while  he  firmly  believed  that  he  was  producing  a  picture  of 
virtue  too  exalted  for  the  commerce  of  the  world,  he  was  really  delineating 
the  greatest  rascal  that  is  to  be  found,  even  in  his  own  writings." 

Voltaire  has  imitated  The  Plain  Dealer  in  a  five-act  comedy  in  verse, 
called  La  Prude,  and  represented  for  the  first  time  in  the  private  theatre 
of  the  Duchess  of  Maine,  at  Anet.  It  is  one  of  the  funniest,  and,  for  the 
student,  one  of  the  most  interesting  imitations  I  have  ever  read;  and  the 
attempt  of  Voltaire  to  hide  the  coarseness  of  Manley  and  Olivia  under  an 
elegant  French  dress,  and  to  make  them  fit  to  be  represented  before  the 
rather  finical,  although  witty,  company  at  Anet,  is  highly  entertaining. 
This  is  the  moral  of  the  piece  after  Dorfise  (Olivia)  is  found  out:  " Cela 
Pourra  d" abord  faire  Jaser  ;  mais  tout  s'appaise,  et  tout  doit  s'appaiser." 

Sheridan  has  also  borrowed  some  scenes  from  The  Misanthrope  for  TVie 
School  for  Scandal,  a  comedy  of  which  M.  Taine,  in  his  work  already 
mentioned,  says, — "Sheridan  took  two  characters  from  Fielding,  Blifil  and 
Tom  Jones  ;  two  plays  of  Moliere,  Le  Misanthrope  and  Tartvffe ;  and 
from  these  puissant  materials,  condensed  with  admirable  cleverness,  he  has 
constructed  the  most  brilliant  firework  imaginable.  Moliere  has  only  one 
female  slanderer,  Celim^ne ;  the  other  characters  serve  only  to  give  her  a 
cue:  there  is  quite  enough  of  such  a  jeering  woman;  she  rails  on  within 
certain  bounds,  without  hurry,  like  a  true  queen  of  the  drawing-room,  who 
has  time  to  converse,  who  knows  that  she  is  listened  to,  who  listens  to  herself; 
she  is  a  woman  of  society,  who  preserves  the  tone  of  refined  conversation  ; 
and  in  order  to  smooth  down  the  harshness,  her  slanders  are  interrupted 
by  the  calm  reason  and  sensible  discourse  of  the  amiable  Eliante.  Moliere 
represents  the  malice  of  the  world  without  exaggeration ;  but  in  Sheridan 
they  are  rather  caricatured  than  depicited. 


THE  MISANTHROPE.  189 

The  sixth  Scene  of  the  second  Act  of  Congreve's  The  Way  of  the 
World,  performed  at  the  theatre,  Lincoln's-Inn-Fields,  in  1700,  has  also 
been  partly  inspired  by  the  fifth  scene  of  the  second  act  of  Moli^re's  play. 
Congreve  seems  to  have  liked  Moli^re's  Misanthrope,  for  he  imitated  the 
same  scenes  of  the  same  play  in  Love  for  Love  (Act  i.,  scenes  9-15).  (See 
Introductory  Notice  to  Don  yuan).  The  characters  there  are  called  Val- 
entine, Scandal,  Tattle,  and  Mrs.  Frail,  and  are  certainly  not  copied,  but 
based  upon  those  of  Moli^re. 

Th.  Shadwell,  in  The  Sullen  Lovers  (see  Introductory  Notice  to  The 
Bores,  Vol.  I.),  has  likewise  imitated  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act  of  The 
Misanthrope. 

In  Baker's  Biographia  Dramatica,  it  is  stated  that  a  certain  Mr.  John 
Huges  translated  The  Misanthrope  from  Voltaire — Moli^re  is  evidently 
meant ;  and  that  this  translation  .  .  .  .  "  was  afterwards  reprinted  with 
Moli^re's  other  plays  translated  by  Ozell,  without  any  notice  by  whom  it 
was  Englished." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

Alceste,  in  love  with  Celiftiene? 

Philinte,  his  friend, 

Oronte,  in  love  with  Celimene. 

Celimene,  beloved  by  Alceste. 

Eliante,  her  cousin. 

Arsinoe,  Celitnene' s  friend. 

Acaste,         1 

\  tnarquises. 
Clitandre,  J 

Basque,  servant  to  Celimene. 

Dubois,  servant  to  Alceste. 

An  Officer  of  the  Mare:chaussee.' 

Scene. — At  Paris,  in  Celimene' s  House. 


2  This  part  was  played  by  Moli&re  himself.  In  the  inventory  taken 
after  Moli^re's  death,  and  given  by  M.  E.  Soulie  in  the  Recherches  stir 
Moliere,  we  find  the  dress  for  the  representation  of  The  Misanthrope,  con- 
sisting of  breeches  and  jacket  of  a  gold-coloured  and  grey  striped  brocade, 
lined  with  tabby,  ornamented  with  green  ribbands ;  the  waistcoat  of  gold 
brocade,  silk  stockings  and  gaiters. 

^  The  marechaussee  was  a  kind  of  mounted  police,  doing  formerly^  the 
same  duty  as  the  gendarmerie  does  now.  It  was  commanded  by  diprevbt' 
general,  under  the  orders  of  the  marshals  of  France, 


THE   MISANTHROPE. 

{LE  MISANTHROPE). 


ACT  I. 


Scene  I. — Philinte,  Alceste. 

Phil.  What  is  the  matter  ?     What  ails  you  ? 

Alc.   (Seated).    Leave  me,  I  pray. 

Phil.  But,  once  more,  tell  me  what  strange  whim  .  .  . 

Alc.  Leave  me,  I  tell  you,  and  get  out  of  my  sight. 

Phil.  But  you  might  at  least  listen  to  people,  without 
getting  angry. 

Alc.  I  choose  to  get  angry,  and  I  do  not  choose  to 
listen. 

Phil.  I  do  not  understand  you  in  these  abrupt  moods, 
and  although  we  are  friends,  I  am  the  first  .    .    . 

Alc.  {Rising  qiiickly).  I,  your  friend  ?  Lay  not  that 
flattering  unction  to  your  soul.  I  have  until  now  professed 
to  be  so  ;  but  after  what  I  have  just  seen  of  you,  I  tell 
you  candidly  that  I  am  such  no  longer  j  I  have  no  wish 
to  occupy  a  place  in  a  corrupt  heart. 

Phil.  I  am  then  very  much  to  be  blamed  from  your 
point  of  view,  Alceste? 

Alc.  To  be  blamed  ?  You  ought  to  die  from  very 
shame;  there  is  no  excuse  for  such  behaviour,  and  every 
man  of  honour  must  be  disgusted  at  it.  I  see  you  almost 
stifle  a  man  with  caresses,  show  him  the  most  ardent  affec- 
tion, and  overwhelm  him  with  protestations,  off'ers,  and 
VOL.  II.  N  193 


194  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  i. 

VOWS  of  friendship.  Your  ebullitions  of  tenderness  know 
no  bounds ;  and  when  I  ask  you  who  that  man  is,  you  can 
scarcely  tell  me  his  name  ;  your  feelings  for  him,  the  mo- 
ment you  have  turned  your  back,  suddenly  cool ;  you 
speak  of  him  most  indifferently  to  me.  Zounds  !  I  call  it 
unworthy,  base,  and  infamous,  so  far  to  demean  one's 
self  as  to  act  contrary  to  one's  own  feelings,  and  if,  un- 
fortunately, I  had  done  such  a  thing,  I  should  go  that 
very  instant,  and  hang  myself  out  of  sheer  vexation. 

Phil.  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  a  hanging  matter  at  all ; 
and  I  beg  of  you  not  to  think  it  amiss  if  I  ask  you  to  show 
me  some  mercy,  for  I  shall  not  hang  myself,  if  it  be  all 
the  same  to  you. 

Alc.   That  is  a  sorry  joke. 

Phil.  But,  seriously,  what  would  you  have  people  do  ? 

Alc.  I  would  have  people  be  sincere,  and  that,  like 
men  of  honour,  no  word  be  spoken  that  comes  not  from 
the  heart. 

Phil.  When  a  man  comes  and  embraces  you  warmly, 
you  must  pay  him  back  in  his  own  coin,  respond  as  best 
you  can  to  his  show  of  feeling,  and  return  offer  for  offer, 
and  vow  for  vow. 

Alc  Not  so.  I  cannot  bear  so  base  a  method,  which 
your  fashionable  people  generally  affect ;  there  is  nothing 
I  detest  so  much  as  the  contortions  of  these  great  time- 
and-lip  servers,  these  affable  dispensers  of  meaningless 
embraces,  these  obliging  utterers  of  empty  words,  who  vie 
with  every  one  in  civilities,  and  treat  the  man  of  worth 
and  the  fop  alike.  What  good  does  it  do  if  a  man  heaps 
endearments  on  you,  vows  that  he  is  your  friend,  that  he 
believes  in  you,  is  full  of  zeal  for  you,  esteems  and  loves 
you,  and  lauds  you  to  the  skies,  when  he  rushes  to  do  the 
same  to  the  first  rapscallion  he  meets  ?  No,  no,  no  heart 
with  the  least  self-respect  cares  for  esteem  so  prostituted ; 
he  will  hardly  relish  it,  even  when  openly  expressed, 
when  he  finds  that  he  shares  it  with  the  whole  universe. 
Preference  must  be  based  on  esteem,  and  to  esteem  every 
one  is  to  esteem  no  one.  As  you  abandon  yourself  to  the 
vices  of  the  times,  zounds !  you  are  not  the  man  for  me. 
I  decline  this  over-complaisant  kindness,  which  uses  no 
discrimination.     I  like  to  be  distinguished  j  and,  to  cut 


scKNBi.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  I95 

the  matter  short,  the  friend  of  all  mankind  is  no  friend  of 
mine. 

Phil.  But  when  we  are  of  the  world,  we  must  conform 
to  the  outward  civilities  which  custom  demands. 

Alc.  I  deny  it.  We  ought  to  punish  pitilessly  that 
shameful  pretence  of  friendly  intercourse.  I  like  a  man 
to  be  a  man,  and  to  show  on  all  occasions  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  in  his  discourse.  Let  that  be  the  thing  to 
speak,  and  never  let  our  feelings  be  hidden  beneath  vain 
compliments. 

Phil.  There  are  many  cases  in  which  plain  speaking 
would  become  ridiculous,  and  could  hardly  be  tolerated. 
And,  with  all  due  allowance  for  your  unbending  honesty, 
it  is  as  well  to  conceal  your  feelings  sometimes.  Would 
it  be  right  or  decent  to  tell  thousands  of  people  what  we 
think  of  them  ?  And  when  we  meet  with  some  one  whom 
we  hate  or  who  displeases  us,  must  we  tell  him  so  openly? 

Alc.  Yes. 

Phil.  What!  Would  you  tell  old  Emilia,  that  it  ill 
becomes  her  to  set  up  for  a  beauty  at  her  age,  and  that 
the  paint  she  uses  disgusts  everyone  ? 

Alc.  Undoubtedly. 

Phil.  Or  Dorilas,  that  he  is  a  bore,  and  that  there  is 
no  one  at  court  who  is  not  sick  of  hearing  him  boast  of 
his  courage,  and  the  lustre  of  his  house  ? 

Alc.  Decidedly  so. 

Phil.  You  are  jesting. 

Alc.  I  am  not  jesting  at  all ;  and  I  would  not  spare  any 
one  in  that  respect.  It  offends  my  eyes  too  much ;  and 
whether  at  Court  or  in  town,  I  behold  nothing  but  what 
provokes  my  spleen.  I  become  quite  melancholy  and 
deeply  grieved  to  see  men  behave  to  each  other  as  they 
do.  Everywhere  I  find  nothing  but  base  flattery,  injus- 
tice, self-interest,  deceit,  roguery.  I  cannot  bear  it  any 
longer ;  I  am  furious ;  and  my  intention  is  to  break  with 
all  mankind. 

Phil.  This  philosophical  spleen  is  somewhat  too  savage. 
I  cannot  but  laugh  to  see  you  in  these  gloomy  fits,  and 
fancy  that  I  perceive  in  us  two,  brought  up  together, 
the  two  brothers  described  in  The  School  for  Husbands ^ 
who  ... 


196  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [acti, 

Alc.  Good  Heavens  !  drop  your  insipid  comparisons. 

Phil.  Nay,  seriously,  leave  off  these  vagaries.  The 
world  will  not  alter  for  all  your  meddling.  And  as  plain 
speaking  has  such  charms  for  you,  I  shall  tell  you  frankly 
that  this  complaint  of  yours  is  as  good  as  a  play,  wherever 
you  go,  and  that  all  those  invectives  against  the  manners 
of  the  age,  make  you  a  laughing-stock  to  many  people. 

Alc.  So  much  the  better,  Zounds  !  so  much  the  better. 
That  is  just  what  I  want.  It  is  a  very  good  sign,  and  I 
rejoice  at  it.  All  men  are  so  odious  to  me,  that  I  should 
be  sorry  to  appear  rational  in  their  eyes. 

Phil.  But  do  you  wish  harm  to  all  mankind  ? 

Alc.  Yes;  I  have  conceived  a  terrible  hatred  for 
them. 

Phil.  Shall  all  poor  mortals,  without  exception,  be  in- 
cluded in  this  aversion  ?  There  are  some,  even  in  the  age 
in  which  we  live  .    .    . 

Alc.  No,  they  are  all  alike  ;  and  I  hate  all  men :  some, 
because  they  are  wicked  and  mischievous ;  others  because 
they  lend  themselves  to  the  wicked,  and  have  not  that 
healthy  contempt  with  which  vice  ought  to  inspire  all 
virtuous  minds.  You  can  see  how  unjustly  and  excessively 
complacent  people  are  to  that  bare-faced  scoundrel  with 
whom  I  am  at  law.  You  may  plainly  perceive  the  traitor 
through  his  mask;  he  is  well  known  everywhere  in  his 
true  colours  ;  his  rolling  eyes  and  his  honeyed  tones  im- 
pose only  on  those  who  do  not  know  him.  People  are 
aware  that  this  low-bred  fellow,  who  deserves  to  be  pillo- 
ried, has,  by  the  dirtiest  jobs,  made  his  way  in  the  world ; 
and  that  the  splendid  position  he  has  acquired  makes  merit 
repine  and  virtue  blush.  Yet  whatever  dishonourable 
epithets  may  be  launched  against  him  everywhere,  nobody 
defends  his  wretched  honour.  Call  him  a  rogue,  an  in- 
famous wretch,  a  confounded  scoundrel  if  you  like,  all 
the  world  will  say  "yea,"  and  no  one  contradicts  you. 
But  for  all  that,  his  bowing  and  scraping  are  welcome 
everywhere ;  he  is  received,  smiled  upon,  and  wriggles 
himself  into  all  kinds  of  society;  and,  if  any  appoint- 
ment is  to  be  secured  by  intriguing,  he  will  carry  the 
day  over  a  man  of  the  greatest  worth.  Zounds  !  these 
are  mortal  stabs  to  me,   to  see  vice  parleyed  with ;  and 


SCENE  1.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  I97 

sometimes  I  feel  suddenly  inclined  to  fly  into  a  wilderness 
far  from  the  approach  of  men. 

Phil.  Great  Heaven  ?  let  us  torment  ourselves  a  little 
less  about  the  vices  of  our  age,  and  be  a  little  more  leni- 
ent to  human  nature.  Let  us  not  scrutinize  it  with  the 
utmost  severity,  but  look  with  some  indulgence  at  its  fail- 
ings. In  society,  we  need  virtue  to  be  more  pliable.  If 
we  are  too  wise,  we  may  be  equally  to  blame.  Good  sense 
avoids  all  extremes,  and  requires  us  to  be  soberly  rational.* 
This  unbending  and  virtuous  stiffness  of  ancient  times 
shocks  too  much  the  ordinary  customs  of  our  own ;  it  re- 
quires too  great  perfection  from  us  mortals  ;  we  must  yield 
to  the  times  without  being  too  stubborn ;  it  is  the  height 
of  folly  to  busy  ourselves  in  correcting  the  world.  I,  as 
well  as  yourself,  notice  a  hundred  things  every  day  which 
might  be  better  managed,  differently  enacted  ;  but  what- 
ever I  may  discover  at  any  moment,  people  do  not  see  me 
in  a  rage  like  you.  I  take  men  quietly  just  as  they  are ;  I 
accustom  my  mind  to  bear  with  what  they  do  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve that  at  Court,  as  well  as  in  the  city,  my  phlegm  is  as 
philosophical  as  your  bile. 

Alc.  But  this  phlegm,  good  sir,  you  who  reason  so  well, 
could  it  not  be  disturbed  by  anything?  And  if  perchance 
a  friend  should  betray  you  ;  if  he  forms  a  subtle  plot  to 
get  hold  of  what  is  yours ;  if  people  should  try  to  spread 
evil  reports  about  you,  would  you  tamely  submit  to  all  this 
without  flying  into  a  rage  ? 

Phil.  Ay,  I  look  upon  all  these  faults  of  which  you 
complain  as  vices  inseparably  connected  with  human  na- 
ture ;  in  short,  my  mind  is  no  more  shocked  at  seeing  a 
man  a  rogue,  unjust,  or  selfish,  than  at  seeing  vultures, 
eager  for  prey,  mischievous  apes,  or  fury-lashed  wolves. 

Alc.  What !  I  should  see  myself  deceived,  torn  to  pieces, 
robbed,  without  being  .  .  .  Zounds !  1  shall  say  no  more 
about  it ;  all  this  reasoning  is  full  of  impertinence ! 

Phil.  Upon  my  word,  you  would  do  well  to  keep  silence. 
Rail  a  little  less  at  your  opponent,  and  attend  a  little  more 
to  your  suit. 

*  Compare  St.  Paul's  Epistle  to  the  Romans,  xii.  3,  "  Not  to  think  more 
highly  than  he  ought  to  think  ;  but  to  think  soberly." 


198  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  I. 

Alc.  That  I  shall  not  do ;  that  is  settled  long  ago. 

Phil.   But  whom  then  do  you  expect  to  solicit  for  you? 

Alc.  Whom  ?     Reason,  my  just  right,  equity. 

Phil.  Shall  you  not  pay  a  visit  to  any  of  the  judges  ? 

Alc.  No.     Is  my  cause  unjust  or  dubious  ? 

Phil.  I  am  agreed  on  that ;  but  you  know  what  harm 
intrigues  do,  and  .    .    , 

Alc.  No.  I  am  resolved  not  to  stir  a  step.  I  am  either 
right  or  wrong. 

Phil.  Do  not  trust  to  that. 

Alc.  I  shall  not  budge  an  inch. 

Phil.  Your  opponent  is  powerful,  and  by  his  underhand 
work,  may  induce  .    .    . 

Alc  It  does  not  matter. 

Phil.  You  will  make  a  mistake. 

Alc.  Be  it  so.,   I  wish  to  see  the  end  of  it. 

Phil.  But  .    .    . 

Alc.  I  shall  have  the  satisfaction  bf  losing  my  suit 

Phil.  But  after  all  .    .    . 

Alc.  I  shall  see  by  this  trial  whether  men  have  sufficient 
impudence,  are  wicked,  villainous,  and  perverse  enough 
to  do  me  this  injustice  in  the  face  of  the  whole  world. 

Phil.  What  a  strange  fellpw ! 

Alc  I  could  wish,  were  it  to  cost  me  ever  so  much, 
that,  for  the  fun  of  .the  thing,  I  lost  my  case. 

Phil.  But  people  will  really  laugh  at  you,  Alceste,  if 
they  hear  you  go  on  in  this  fashion. 

Alc  So  much  the  worse  for  those  who  will. 

Phil.  But  this  rectitude,  which  you  exact  so  carefuljy 
in  every  case,  this  absolute  integrity  in  which  you  intrench 
yourself,  do  you  perceive  it  in  the  lady  you  love  ?  As  for 
me,  I  am  astonished  that,  appearing  to  be  at  war  with  the 
whole  human  race,  you  yet,  notwithstanding  everything 
that  can  render  it  odious  to  you,  have  found  aught  to 
charm  your  eyes.  And  what  surprises  me  still  more,  is 
the  strange  choice  your  heart  has  made.  The  sincere 
£liante  has  a  liking  for  you,  the  prude  Arsino6  looks  with 
favour  upon  you,  yet  your  heart  does  not  respond  to  their 
passion;  whilst  you  wear  the  chains  of  Celimene,  who 
sports  with  you,  and  whose  coquettish  humour  and  mali- 
cious wit  seems  to  accord  so  well  with  the  manner  of  the 


scBKsn.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  igg 

times.  How  comes  it  that,  hating  these  things  as  mortally 
as  you  do,  you  endure  so  much  of  them  in  that  lady? 
Are  they  no  longer  faults  in  so  sweet  a  charmer  ?  Do  not 
you  perceive  them,  or  if  you  do,  do  you  excuse  them? 

Alc.  Not  so.  The  love  I  feel  for  this  young  widow  does 
not  make  me  blind  to  her  faults,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
great  passion  with  which  she  has  inspired  me,  I  am  the 
first  to  see,  as  well  as  to  condemn,  them.  But  for  all  this, 
do  what  I  will,  I  confess  my  weakness,  she  has  the  art  of 
pleasing  me.  In  vain  I  see  her  faults ;  I  may  even  blame 
them ;  in  spite  of  all,  she  makes  me  love  her.  Her  charms 
conquer  everything,  and,  no  doubt,  my  sincere  love  will 
purify  our  heart  from  the  vices  of  our  times.* 

Phil.  If  you  accomplish  this,  it  will  be  no  small  task. 
Do  you  believe  yourself  beloved  by  her? 

Alc.  Yes,  certainly  !  I  should  not  love  her  at  all,  did  I 
not  think  so. 

Phil.  But  if  her  love  for  you  is  so  apparent,  how  comes 
it  that  your  rivals  cause  you  so  much  uneasiness  ? 

Alc.  It  is  because  a  heart,  deeply  smitten,  claims  all  to 
itself;  I  come  here  only  with  the  intention  of  telling  her 
what,  on  this  subject,  my  feelings  dictate. 

Phil.  Had  I  but  to  choose,  her  cousin  Eliante  would 
have  all  my  love.  Her  heart,  which  values  yours,  is  stable 
and  sincere ;  and  this  more  compatible  choice  would  have 
suited  you  better. 

Alc.  It  is  true ;  my  good  sense  tells  me  so  every  day ; 
but  good  sense  does  not  always  rule  love. 

Phil.  Well,  I  fear  much  for  your  affections;  and  the 
hope  which  you  cherish  may  perhaps  ...    . 

Scene  II. — Oronte,  Alceste,  Philinte. 

Oron.  {To  Alceste).  I  have  been  informed  yonder,  that 
■  feliante  and  Celimene  have  gone  out  to  make  some  pur- 
chases. But  as  I  heard  that  you  were  here,  I  came  to  tell 
you,  most  sincerely,  that  I  have  conceived  the  greatest 
regard  for  you,  and  that,  for  a  long  time,  this  regard  has 
inspired  me  with  the  most  ardent  wish  to  be  reckoned 

*  Compare  the  stipptosed  conversation  between  Moli^re  and  Chapelle  in 
the  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Impromptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  I. 


200  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [actu 

among  your  friends.  Yes ;  I  like  to  do  homage  to  merit ; 
and  I  am  most  anxious  that  a  bond  of  friendship  should 
unite  us.  I  suppose  that  a  zealous  friend,  and  of  my 
standing,  is  not  altogether  to  be  rejected.  {All  this  time 
Alceste  has  been  musing,  and  seeins  not  to  be  aware  that 
Oronte  is  addressing  him.  He  looks  up  only  when  Oronte 
says  to  hijn,~) — It  is  to  you,  if  you  please,  that  this  speech  is 
addressed. 

Alc.   To  me,  sir  ? 

Oron.   To  you.     Is  it  in  any  way  offensive  to  you  ? 

Alc.  Not  in  the  least.  But  my  surprise  is  very  great ; 
and  I  did  not  expect  that  honour. 

Oron.  The  regard  in  which  I  hold  you  ought  not  to 
astonish  you,  and  you  can  claim  it  from  the  whole  world. 

Alc.    Sir  .    .    . 

Oron.  Our  whole  kingdom  contains  nothing  above  the 
dazzling  merit  which  people  discover  in  you. 

Alc.  Sir  .    .    . 

Oron.  Yes ;  for  my  part,  I  prefer  you  to  the  most  im- 
portant in  it. 

Alc.    Sir  .    .    . 

Oron.  May  Heaven  strike  me  dead,  if  I  lie  !  And,  to 
convince  you,  on  this  very  spot,  of  my  feelings,  allow  me, 
sir,  to  embrace  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  to  solicit  a 
place  in  your  friendship.  Your  hand,  if  you  please.  Will 
you  promise  me  your  friendship  ? 

Alc.  Sir  .    .    . 

Oron.  What !   you  refuse  me  ? 

Alc.  Sir,  you  do  me  too  much  honour ;  but  friendship 
is  a  sacred  thing,*  and  to  lavish  it  on  every  occasion  is 
surely  to  profane  it.  Judgment  and  choice  should  preside 
at  such  a  compact ;  we  ought  to  know  more  of  each  other 
before  engaging  ourselves  ;  and  it  may  happen  that  our 
dispositions  are  such  that  we  may  both  of  us  repent  of  our 
bargain. 

Oron.  Upon  my  word  !  that  is  wisely  said ;  and  I  es- 
teem you  all  the  more  for  it.     Let  us  therefore  leave  it  to 

•The  original  has  ramitie  demande  un  peu  plus  de  mystere,  friendship 
demands  a  little  more  mystery.  I  imagine  this  to  be  an  allusion  to  the 
mystery  of  religion.  Hence  the  idea  of  sacredness  ;  for  otherwise  it  is 
unintelligible  why  friendship  should  demand  mystery. 


SCKNB  II.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  20I 

time  to  form  such  a  pleasing  bond  ;  but,  meanwhile  I  am 
entirely  at  your  disposal.  If  you  have  any  business  at 
Court,  every  one  knows  how  well  I  stand  with  the  King; 
I  have  his  private  ear  ;  and,  upon  my  word,  he  treats  me 
in  everything  with  the  utmost  intimacy.  In  short,  I  am 
yours  in  every  emergency ;  and,  as  you  are  a  man  of 
brilliant  parts,  and  to  inaugurate  our  charming  amity,  I 
come  to  read  you  a  sonnet  which  I  made  a  little  while 
ago,  and  to  know  whether  it  be  good  enough  for  pub- 
licity. 

Alc.  I  am  not  fit,  sir,  to  decide  such  a  matter.  You 
will  therefore  excuse  me. 

Oron.  Why  so  ? 

Alc.  I  have  the  failing  of  being  a  little  more  sincere  in 
those  things  than  is  necessary. 

Oron.  The  very  thing  I  ask ;  and  I  should  have  reason 
to  complain,  if,  in  laying  myself  open  to  you  that  you 
might  give  me  your  frank  opinion,  you  should  deceive  me, 
and  disguise  anything  from  me. 

Alc.  If  that  be  the  case,  sir,  I  am  perfectly  willing. 

Oron.  Sonnet .  .  It  is  a  sonnet  .  .  .  Hope  ...  It 
is  to  a  lady  who  flattered  my  passion  with  some  hope. 
Hope  .  .  .  They  are  not  long,  pompous  verses,  but 
mild,  tender  and  melting  little  lines. 

{At  every  one  of  these  interruptions  he   looks  at 
Alceste. 

Alc.  We  shall  see. 

Oron.  Hope  ...  I  do  not  know  whether  the  style 
will  strike  you  as  sufficiently  clear  and  easy,  and  whether 
you  will  approve  of  my  choice  of  words. 

Alc.  We  shall  soon  see,  sir. 

Oron.  Besides,  you  must  know  that  I  was  only  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  in  composing  it. 

Alc.  Let  us  hear,  sir ;  the  time  signifies  nothing. 

Oron.  {Reads).  Hope,  it  is  true,  oft  gives  relief, 

Rocks  for  a  while  our  tedious  pain. 
But  what  a  poor  advantage,  Fhillis, 
When  nought  remains,  and  all  is  gone  / 

Phil.  I  am  already  charmed  with  this  little  bit. 

Alc.  {Softly  to  Philinte).  What !  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  you  like  this  stuff? 


aOSt  THE  MISANTHROPE.  t*CTi. 

Oron.   You  once  had  some  complacency. 
But  less  would  have  sufficed. 
You  should  not  take  that  trouble 
To  give  me  nought  but  hope. 
Phil.  In  what  pretty  terms  these  thoughts  are  put ! 
Alc.  How  now  !  you  vile  flatterer,  you  praise  this  rub- 
bish ! 

Oron.  If  I  must  wait  eternally, 

My  passion,  driven  to  extremes. 
Will  fly  to  death. 

Your  tender  cares  cannot  prevent  this, 
Fair  Phillis,  aye  we' re  in  despair, 
When  we  must  hope  for  ever. 
Phil.  The  conclusion  is  pretty,  amorous,  admirable. 
Alc  {Softly,  and  aside  to  Philinte).     A  plague  on  the 
conclusion  !      I  wish  you  had  concluded  to  break  your 
nose,  you  poisoner  to  the  devil ! 

Phil.  I  never  heard  verses  more  skilfully  turned.^ 
Alc.  (Softly,  and  aside).     Zounds  !  .    .    . 
Oron.  {To  Philinte).     You  flatter  me;    and   you  are 
under  the  impression  perhaps  .    .    . 
Phil.  No,  I  am  not  flattering  at  all, 
Alc.   {Softly,  and  aside).     What  else  are  you  doing,  you 
wretch  ? 

Oron.  (  To  Alceste).  But  for  you,  you  know  our  agree- 
ment.    Speak  to  me,  I  pray,  in  all  sincerity. 

Alc.  These  matters,  sir,  are  always  more  or  less  deli- 
cate, and  every  one  is  fond  of  being  praised  for  his  wit. 
But  I  was  saying  one  day  to  a  certain  person,  who  shall  be 
nameless,  when  he  showed  me  some  of  his  verses,  that  a 
gentleman  ought  at  all  times  to  exercise  a  great  control 
over  that  itch  for  writing  which  sometimes  attacks  us,  and 
should  keep  a  tight  rein  over  the  strong  propensity  which 
one  has  to  display  such  amusements ;  and  that,  in  the 
frequent  anxiety  to  show  their  productions,  people  are 
frequently  exposed  to  act  a  very  foolish  part. 


'  One  of  the  commentators  of  Moli^re,  Aime-Martin,  thinks  that  the 
praises  which  Philinte  bestows  on  Oronte's  sonnet  prove  his  kind  feeling. 
I  think  the  saying,  "  I  never  heard  verses  more  skilfully  turned,"  proves 
more  than  this. 


SCBNBii.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  203 

Oron.  Do  yon  wish  to  convey  to  me  by  this  that  I  am 
wrong  in  desiring  .    .    . 

Alc.  I  do  not  say  that  exactly.  But  I  told  him  that 
writing  without  warmth  becomes  a  bore ;  that  there  needs 
no  other  weakness  to  disgrace  a  man  ;  that,  even  if  peo- 
ple on  the  other  hand,  had  a  hundred  good  qualities,  we 
view  them  from  their  worst  sides. 

Oron.  Do  you  find  anything  to  object  to  in  my  sonnet  ? 

Alc.  I  do  not  say  that.  But,  to  keep  him  from  writing, 
I  set  before  his  eyes  how,  in  our  days,  that  desire  has 
spoiled  a  great  many  very  worthy  people. 

Oron.  Do  I  write  badly?    Am  I  like  them  in  any  way  ? 

Alc  I  do  not  say  that.  But,  in  short,  I  said  to  him, 
What  pressing  need  is  there  for  you  to  rhyme,  and  what 
the  deuce  drives  you  into  print  ?  If  we  can  pardon  the 
sending  into  the  world  of  a  badly-written  book,  it  will 
only  be  in  those  unfortunate  men  who  write  for  their  live- 
lihood. Believe  me,  resist  your  temptations,  keep  these 
effusions  from  the  public,  and  do  not,  how  much  soever 
you  may  be  asked,  forfeit  the  reputation  which  you  enjoy 
at  Court  of  being  a  man  of  sense  and  a  gentleman,  to 
take,  from  the  hands  of  a  greedy  printer,  that  of  a  ridicu- 
lous and  wretched  author.  That  is  what  I  tried  to  make 
him  understand. 

Oron.  This  is  all  well  and  good,  and  I  seem  to  under- 
stand you.  But  I  should  like  to  know  what  there  is  in  my 
sonnet  to    .    .    . 

Alc.  Candidly,  you  had  better  put  it  in  your  closet. 
You  have  been  following  bad  models,  and  your  expressions 
are  not  at  all  natural.  Pray  what  is — Rocks  for  a  while  our 
tedious  pain?  ■  And  what,  When  nought  remains,  and  all  is 
gone  ?  What,  You  should  not  take  that  trouble  to  give  me 
nought  but  hope?  And  what,  Phillis,  aye  we're  in  despair 
when  we  must  hope  for  ever?  This  figurative  style,  that 
people  are  so  vain  of,  is  beside  all  good  taste  and  truth  ;  it 
is  only  a  play  upon  words,  sheer  affectation,  and  it  is  not 
thus  that  nature  speaks.  The  wretched  taste  of  the  age  is 
what  I  dislike  in  this.  Our  forefathers,  unp>olished  as  they 
were,  had  a  much  better  one;  and  I  value  all  that  is  ad- 
mired now-a-days  far  less  than  an  old  song  which  I  am 
going  to  repeat  to  you : 


a04  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [ACT  I. 

"Had  our  great  monarch  granted  me 
His  Paris  large  and  fair  j 
And  I  straightway  must  quit  for  aye 
The  love  of  my  true  dear; 
Then  would  I  say,  King  Hall,  I  pray. 
Take  back  your  Paris  fair, 
I  love  much  mo  my  dear,  I  trow, 
I  love  much  mo  my  dear.^^ 

This  versification  is  not  rich,  and  the  style  is  antiquated ; 
but  do  you  not  see  that  it  is  far  better  than  all  those  trum- 
pery trifles  against  which  good  sense  revolts,  and  that  in 
this,  passion  speaks  from  the  heart  ? 

"  Had  our  great  monarch  granted  me 
His  Paris  large  and  fair; 
And  I  straightway  must  quit  for  aye 
The  love  of  my  true  dear; 
Then  would  I  say.  King  Hall,  I  pray. 
Take  back  your  Paris  fair, 
I  love  much  mo  my  dear,  I  trow, 
I  love  much  Tno  my  dear. ' ' 

This  is  what  a  really  loving  heart  would  say.  (To  Philinte, 
who  is  laughing).  Yes,  master  wag,  in  spite  of  all  your 
wit,  I  care  more  for  this  than  for  all  the  florid  pomp  and 
the  tinsel  which  everybody  is  admiring  now-a-days. 

Oron.  And  I,  I  maintain  that  my  verses  are  very  good. 

Alc.  Doubtless  you  have  your  reasons  for  thinking  them 
so;  but  you  will  allow  me  to  have  mine,  which,  with  your 
permission,  will  remain  independent. 

Oron.   It  is  enough  for  me  that  others  prize  them. 

Alc.  That  is  because  they  know  how  to  dissemble,  which 
I  do  not. 

Oron.  Do  you  really  believe  that  you  have  such  a  great 
share  of  wit  ? 

Alc.  If  I  praised  your  verses,  I  should  have  more. 

Oron.  I  shall  do  very  well  without  your  approbation. 

Alc.  You  will  have  to  do  without  it,  if  it  be  all  the 
same. 


SCENE  III.J  THE  MISANTHROPE.  305 

Oron.  I  should  like  much  to  see  you  compose  some  on 
the  same  subject,  just  to  have  a  sample  of  your  style. 

Alc.  I  might,  perchance,  make  some  as  bad ;  but  I 
should  take  good  care  not  to  show  them  to  any  one. 

Oron.  You  are  mighty  positive;  and  this  great  suffi- 
ciency .    .    . 

Alc.  Pray,  seek  some  one  else  to  flatter  you,  and 
not  me. 

Oron.  But,  my  little  sir,  drop  this  haughty  tone. 

Alc.  In  truth,  my  big  sir,  I  shall  do  as  I  like. 

Phil.  {Coming-  between  iheni):  Stop,  gentlemen  !  that  is 
carrying  the  matter  too  far.     Cease,  I  pray. 

Oron.  Ah!  I  am  wrong,  I  confess;  and  I  leave  the 
field  to  you.     I  am  your  servant,  sir,  most  heartily. 

Alc.  And  I,  sir,  am  your  most  humble  servant. 

Scene  III. — Philinte,  Alceste. 

Phil.  Well !  you  see.  By  being  too  sincere,  you  have 
got  a  nice  affair  on  your  hands ;  I  saw  that  Oronte,  in 
order  to  be  flattered  .    .    . 

Alc.  Do  not  talk  to  me. 

Phil.  But  .    .    . 

Alc.  No  more  society  for  me. 

Phil.  Is  it  too  much  ... 

Alc.  Leave  me  alone. 

Phil.  If  I  .    .    . 

Alc.  Not  another  word. 

Phil.  But  what  .   .    . 

Alc.  I  will  hear  no  more. 

Phil.  But  .    .   . 

Alc.  Again  ? 

Phil.  People  insult  .   .    . 

Alc.  Ah !  zounds  !  this  is  too  much.  Do  not  dog  my 
steps. 

Phil.  You  are  making  fun  of  me ;  I  shall  not  leave 
you. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Alceste,  C^limene. 
Alc.  Will  you  have  me  speak  candidly  to  you,  madam  ? 


S06  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  ii. 

Well,  then,  I  am  very  much  dissatisfied  with  your  be- 
haviour. I  am  very  angry  when  I  think  of  it ;  and  I  per- 
ceive that  we  shall  have  to  break  with  each  other.  Yes  ; 
I  should  only  deceive  you  were  I  to  speak  otherwise. 
Sooner  or  later  a  rupture  is  unavoidable  ;  and  if  I  were  to 
promise  the  contrary  a  thousand  times,  I  should  not  be 
able  to  bear  this  any  longer. 

Cel.  Oh,  I  see !  it  is  to  quarrel  with  me,  that  you 
wished  to  conduct  me  home  ? 

Alc.  I  do  not  quarrel.  But  your  disposition,  madam, 
is  too  ready  to  give  any  fifst  comer  an  entrance  into  your 
heart.  Too  many  admirers  beset  you;  and  my  temper 
cannot  put  up  with  that. 

Cel.  Am  I  to  blame  for  having  too  many  admirers  ? 
Can  I  prevent  people  from  thinking  me  amiable  ?  and  am 
I  to  take  a  stick  to  drive  them  away,  when  they  endeavour 
by  tender  means  to  visit  me  ? 

Alc.  No,  madam,  there  is  no  need  for  a  stick,  but  only 
a  heart  less  yielding  and  less  melting  at  their  love-tales. 
I  am  aware  that  your  good  looks  accompany  you,  go 
where  you  will ;  but  your  reception  retains  those  whom 
your  eyes  attract ;  and  that  gentleness,  accorded  to  those 
who  surrender  their  arms,  finishes  on  their  hearts  the  sway 
which  your  charms  began.  The  too  agreeable  expectation 
which  you  offer  them  increases  their  assiduities  towards 
you ;  and  your  complacency,  a  little  less  extended,  would 
drive  away  the  great  crowd  of  so  many  admirers.  But, 
tell  me,  at  least.  Madam,  by  what  good  fortune  Clitandre 
has  the  happiness  of  pleasing  you  so  mightily?  Upon 
what  basis  of  merit  and  sublime  virtue  do  you  ground  the 
honour  of  your  regard  for  him  ?  Is  it  by  the  long  nail  on 
his  little  finger  that  he  has  acquired  the  esteem  which  you 
display  for  him?  Are  you,  like  all  the  rest  of  the  fashion- 
able world,  fascinated  by  the  dazzling  merit  of  his  fair 
wig?  Do  his  great  rolls  make  you  love  him?  Do  his 
many  ribbons  charm  you?  Is  it  by  the  attraction  of  his 
large  rhingrave,^  that  he  has  conquered  your  heart,  whilst 
at  the  same  time  he  pretended  to  be  your  slave  ?   Or  have 


8  The  rhingrave  was  a  large  pair  of  breeches,  introduced  into  France 
by  a  certain  Count  von  Salm,  who  was  called  the  Rheingraf. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  207 

his  manner  of  smiling,  and  his  falsetto  voice,^  found  out 
the  secret  of  moving  your  feelings  ? 

Cel.  How  unjustly  you  take  umbrage  at  him  !  Do  not 
you  know  why  I  countenance  him ;  and  that  he  has  pro- 
mised to  interest  all  his  friends  in  my  lawsuit  ? 

Alc.  Lose  your  lawsuit,  madam,  with  patience,  and  do 
not  countenance  a  rival  whom  I  detest. 

Cel,  But  you  are  getting  jealous  of  the  whole  world. 

Alc.  It  is  because  the  whole  world  is  so  kindly  received 
by  you. 

Cel.  That  is  the  very  thing-  to  calm  your  frightened 
mind,  because  my  goodwill  is  diffused  over  all :  you  would 
have  more  reason  to  be  offended  if  you  saw  me  entirely 
occupied  with  one. 

Alc.  But  as  for  me,  whom  you  accuse  of  too  much 
jealousy,  what  have  I  more  than  any  of  them,  madam, 
pray? 

Cel.  The  happiness  of  knowing  that  you  are  beloved. 

Alc.  And  what  grounds  has  my  love-sick  heart  for 
believing  it  ? 

Cel.  I  think  that,  as  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  tell 
you  so,  such  an  avowal  ought  to  satisfy  you. 

Alc.  But  who  will  assure  me  that  you  may  not,  at  the 
same  time,  say  as  much  to  everybody  else  perhaps  ? 

Cel.  Certainly,  for  a  lover,  this  is  a  pretty  amorous 
speech,  and  you  make  me  out  a  very  nice  lady.  Well !  to 
remove  such  a  suspicion,  I  retract  this  moment  everything 
I  have  said ;  and  no  one  but  yourself  shall  for  the  future 
impose  upon  you.     Will  that  satisfy  you? 

Alc.  Zounds  !  why  do  I  love  you  so  !  Ah  !  if  ever  I  get 
heart-whole  out  of  your  hands,  I  shall  bless  Heaven  for 
this  rare  good  fortune.  I  make  no  secret  of  it ;  I  do  all 
that  is  possible  to  tear  this  unfortunate  attachment  from 
my  heart ;  but  hitherto  my  greatest  efforts  have  been  of  no 
avail ;  and  it  is  for  my  sins  that  I  love  you  thus. 

Cel.  It  is  very  true  that  your  affection  for  me  is 
unequalled. 

9  Compare  with  this  what  Moli^re  says  in  The  Imi>romptu  of  Versailles, 
Vol.  I.,  Scene  iii.,  when  he  reprimands  La  Grange.  "That  is  not  the 
way  in  which  Marquises  talk.  It  must  be  a  little  higher.  Most  of  these 
gentlemen  affect  a  special  tone  to  distinguish  themselves  from  the  vulgar." 


208  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [act  ii. 

Alc.  As  for  that,  I  can  challenge  the  whole  world.  My 
love  for  you  cannot  be  conceived ;  and  never,  madam,  has 
any  man  loved  as  I  do. 

Cel.  Your  method,  however,  is  entirely  new,  for  you 
love  people  only  to  quarrel  with  them ;  it  is  in  peevish 
expressions  alone  that  your  feelings  vent  themselves ;  no 
one  ever   saw  such  a  grumbling  swain. 

Alc.  But  it  lies  with  you  alone  to  dissipate  this  ill- 
humour.  For  mercy's  sake  let  us  make  an  end  of  all 
these  bickerings ;  deal  openly  with  each  other,  and  try  to 
put  a  stop  .    .    .  ^^ 

Scene  II. — Celim^ne,  Alceste,  Basque. 

Cel.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Bas.  Acaste  is  below. 

Cel.  Very  well !  bid  him  come  up. 

Scene  III. — Celimene,  Alceste. 

Alc.  What !  can  one  never  have  a  little  private  con- 
versation with  you?  You  are  always  ready  to  receive 
company ;  and  you  cannot,  for  a  single  instant,  make  up 
your  mind  to  be  "not  at  home." 

Cel.  Do  you  wish  me  to  quarrel  with  Acaste  ? 

Alc.  You  have  such  regard  for  people,  which  I  by  no 
means  like. 

Cel.  He  is  a  man  never  to  forgive  me,  if  he  knew  that 
his  presence  could  annoy  me. 

Alc.  And  what  is  that  to  you,  to  inconvenience  your- 
self so  .    .    . 

Cel.  But,  good  Heaven  !  the  amity  of  such  as  he  is  of 
importance;  they  are  a  kind  of  people  who,  I  do  not 
know  how,  have  acquired  the  right  to  be  heard  at  Court. 
They  take  their  part  in  every  conversation ;  they  can  do 
you  no  good,  but  they  may  do  you  harm ;  and,  whatever 
support  one  may  find  elsewhere,  it  will  never  do  to  be  on 
bad  terms  with  these  very  noisy  gentry. 

10  It  has  been  justly  remarked  by  Genin,  that  Racine,  who  until  then 
had  treated  love  in  La  Thebdide,  and  Alexandre,  as  a  heroic  passion,  was 
taught,  probably  by  The  Misanthrope,  to  treat  that  passion  in  a  natural 
manner ;  for  thus  he  displays  it  in  Andromaque,  which  appeared  a  year 
after  Moliere's  play. 


SCENE  v.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  211 

Ac.    And  Geralde,  Madam? 

Cel.  That  tiresome  story-teller !  He  never  comes  down 
from  his  nobleman's  pedestal;  he  continually  mixes  with 
the  best  society,  and  never  quotes  any  one  of  minor  rank 
than  a  Duke,  Prince,  or  Princess.  Rank  is  his  hobby, 
and  his  conversation  is  of  nothing  but  horses,  carriages, 
and  dogs.  He  thee' s  and  thou' s  persons  of  the  highest 
standing,  and  the  word  Sir  is  quite  obsolete  with  him. 

Cl.  It  is  said  that  he  is  on  the  best  of  terms  with 
Belise. 

Cel.  Poor  silly  woman,  and  the  dreariest  company ! 
When  she  comes  to  visit  me,  I  suffer  from  martyrdom ; 
one  has  to  rack  one's  brains  perpetually  to  find  out  what  to 
say  to  her ;  and  the  impossibility  of  her  expressing  her 
thoughts  allows  the  conversation  to  drop  every  minute. 
In  vain  you  try  to  overcome  her  stupid  silence  by  the 
assistance  of  the  most  commonplace  topics ;  even  the  fine 
weather,  the  rain,  the  heat  and  the  cold  are  subjects, 
which,  with  her,  are  soon  exhausted.  Yet  for  all  that, 
her  calls,  unbearable  enough,  are  prolonged  to  an  insuffer- 
able length;  and  you  may  consult  the  clock,  or  yawn 
twenty  times,  but  she  stirs  no  more  than  a  log  of  wood. 

Ac.  What  think  you  of  Adraste  ? 

Cel.  Oh  !  What  excessive  pride  !  He  is  a  man  posi- 
tively puffed  out  with  conceit.  His  self-importance  is 
never  satisfied  with  the  Court,  against  which  he  inveighs 
daily ;  and  whenever  an  office,  a  place,  or  a  living  is 
"bestowed  on  another,  he  is  sure  to  think  himself  unjustly 
treated. 

Cl.  But  young  Cleon,  whom  the  most  respectable  peo- 
ple go  to  see,  what  say  you  of  him  ? 

Cel.  That  it  is  to  his  cook  he  owes  his  distinction,  and 
to  his  table  that  people  pay  visits. 

El.   He  takes  pains  to  provide  the  most  dainty  dishes. 

Cel.  True  ;  but  I  should  be  very  glad  if  he  would  not 
dish  up  himself.  His  foolish  person  is  a  very  bad  dish, 
which,  to  my  thinking,  spoils  every  entertainment  which 
he  gives. 

Phil.  His  uncle  Damis  is  very  much  esteemed ;  what 
say  you  to  him.  Madam  ? 

Cel.   He  is  one  of  my  friends. 


212  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [act  ir. 

Phil.  I  think  him  a  perfect  gentleman,  and  sensible 
enough. 

Cel.  True ;  but  he  pretends  to  too  much  wit,  which 
annoys  me.  He  is  always  upon  stilts,  and,  in  all  his  con- 
versations, one  sees  him  labouring  to  say  smart  things. 
Since  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  be  clever,  he  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  please  that  nothing  suits  his  taste.  He  must  needs 
find  mistakes  in  everything  that  one  writes,  and  thinks 
that  to  bestow  praise  does  not  become  a  wit,  that  to  find 
fault  shows  learning,  that  only  fools  admire  and  laugh, 
and  that,  by  not  approving  of  anything  in  the  works  of  our 
time,  he  is  superior  to  all  other  people.  Even  in  conver- 
sations he  finds  something  to  cavil  at,  the  subjects  are  too 
trivial  for  his  condescension ;  and,  with  arms  crossed  on 
his  breast,  he  looks  down  from  the  height  of  his  intellect 
with  pity  on  what  everyone  says. 

Ac.  Drat  it  !  his  very  picture. 

Cl.  {To  Celimene).  You  have  an  admirable  knack  of 
portraying  people  to  the  life. 

Alc.  Capital,  go  on,  my  fine  courtly  friends.  You 
spare  no  one,  and  every  one  will  have  his  turn.  Never- 
theless, let  but  any  one  of  those  persons  appear,  and  we 
shall  see  you  rush  to  meet  him,  offer  him  your  hand,  and, 
with  a  flattering  kiss,  give  weight  to  your  protestations  of 
being  his  servant. 

Cl.  Why  this  to  us  ?  If  what  is  said  offends  you,  the 
reproach  must  be  addressed  to  this  lady. 

Alc.  No,  gadzooks  !  it  concerns  you  ;  for  your  assent- 
ing smiles  draw  from  her  wit  all  these  slanderous  remarks. 
Her  satirical  vein  is  incessantly  recruited  by  the  culpable 
incense  of  your  flattery ;  and  her  mind  would  find  fewer 
charms  in  raillery,  if  she  discovered  that  no  one  applauded 
her.  Thus  it  is  that  to  flatterers  we  ought  everywhere  to 
impute  the  vices  which  are  sown  among  mankind. 

Phil.  But  why  do  you  take  so  great  an  interest  in  those 
people,  for  you  would  condemn  the  very  things  that  are 
blamed  in  them  ? 

Cel.  And  is  not  this  gentleman  bound  to  contradict? 
Would  you  have  him  subscribe  to  the  general  opinion; 
and  must  he  not  everywhere  display  the  spirit  of  con- 
tradiction with  which  Heaven  has  endowed  him  ?     Other 


8CBNK  v.l  THE   MISANTHROPE.  21 3 

people's  sentiments  can  never  please  him.  He  always  sup- 
ports a  contrary  idea,  and  he  would  think  himself  too 
much  of  the  common  herd,  were  he  observed  to  be  of 
any  one's  opinion  but  his  own.  The  honour  of  gainsay- 
ing has  so  many  charms  for  him,  that  he  very  often  takes 
up  the  cudgels  against  himself;  he  combats  his  own  sen- 
timents as  soon  as  he  hears  them  from  other  folks'  lips.^' 

Alc.  In  short,  madam,  the  laughers  are  on  your  side ; 
and  you  may  launch  your  satire  against  me. 

Phil.  But  it  is  very  true,  too,  that  you  always  take  up 
arms  against  everything  that  is  said  j  and,  that  your 
avowed  spleen  cannot  bear  people  to  be  praised  or 
blamed. 

Alc.  'Sdeath  !  spleen  against  mankind  is  always  season- 
able, because  they  are  never  in  the  right,  and  I  see  that, 
in  all  their  dealings,  they  either  praise  impertinently,  or 
censure  rashly. 

Cel.  But  .    .    . 

Alc.  No,  madam,  no,  though  I  were  to  die  for  it,  you 
have  pastimes  which  I  cannot  tolerate;  and  people  are 
very  wrong  to  nourish  in  your  heart  this  great  attachment 
to  the  very  faults  which  they  blame  in  you. 

Cl.  As  for  myself,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  openly 
acknowledge  that  hitherto  I  have  thought  this  lady 
faultless. 

Ac.  I  see  that  she  is  endowed  with  charms  and  attrac- 
tions ;  but  the  faults  which  she  has  have  not  struck  me. 

Alc.  So  much  the  more  have  they  struck  me;  and  far 
from  appearing  blind,  she  knows  that  I  take  care  to 
reproach  her  with  them.     The  more  we  love  any  one,  the 


^'  This  passage  has  been  applied  by  Moli&re's  contemporaries  to  the 
Duke  de  Montausier.  It  is  said  that  this  nobleman  was  one  day  walking 
with  a  friend,  near  the  Tuileries,  when  the  latter  remarked  how  foolish 
Renard,  the  proprietor  of  some  gardens  close  by,  was  to  allow  the 
public  to  enter  there,  instead  of  keeping  them  only  for  himself  and  his 
friends.  The  Duke  replied  that  Renard  could  not  do  better  than  receive 
respectable  people  in  his  grounds,  and  proved  this  convincingly.  On 
the  next  day,  being  by  accident  in  the  same  neighbourhood,  Montausier's 
friend  observed  how  praiseworthy  it  was  in  Renard  to  allow  good  com- 
pany to  enter  his  grounds;  but  the  Duke  replied,  that  only  a  madman 
could  spoil  his  own  and  his  friends'  pleasures,  in  order  to  allow  all  the 
idlers  of  the  court  and  town  to  saunter  there.  It  is  said  that  Manage 
related  this  anecdote. 


214  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [act  II. 

less  we  ought  to  flatter  her.  True  love  shows  itself  by- 
overlooking  nothing ;  and,  were  I  a  lady,  I  would  banish 
all  those  mean-spirited  lovers  who  submit  to  all  my  sen- 
timents, and  whose  mild  complacencies  every  moment 
ofifer  up  incense  to  my  vagaries. 

Cel.  In  short,  if  hearts  were  ruled  by  you  we  ought, 
to  love  well,  to  relinquish  all  tenderness,  and  make  it  the 
highest  aim  of  perfect  attachment  to  rail  heartily  at  the 
persons  we  love. 

El.  Love,  generally  speaking,  is  little  apt  to  put  up 
with  these  decrees,  and  lovers  are  always  observed  to 
extol  their  choice.  Their  passion  never  sees  aught  to 
blame  in  it,  and  in  the  beloved  all  things  become  love- 
able.  They  think  their  faults  perfections,  and  invent 
sweet  terms  to  call  them  by.  The  pale  one  vies  with  the 
jessamine  in  fairness;  another,  dark  enough  to  frighten 
people,  becomes  an  adorable  brunette ;  the  lean  one  has 
a  good  shape  and  is  lithe ;  the  stout  one  has  a  portly  and 
majestic  bearing;  the  slattern,  who  has  few  charms, 
passes  under  the  name  of  a  careless  beauty  ;  the  giantess 
seems  a  very  goddess  in  their  sight ;  the  dwarf  is  an 
epitome  of  all  the  wonders  of  Heaven  ;  the  proud  one 
has  a  soul  worthy  of  a  diadem ;  the  artful  brims  with  wit ; 
the  silly  one  is  very  good-natured;  the  chatterbox  is 
good-tempered ;  and  the  silent  one  modest  and  reticent. 
Thus  a  passionate  swain  loves  even  the  very  faults  of 
those  of  whom  he  is  enamoured." 

Alc.  And  I  maintain  that    .    .    . 

Cel.  Let  us  drop  the  subject,  and  take  a  turn  or  two  in 
the  gallery.     What !  are  you  going,  gentlemen  ? 

Cl.  and  Ac.  No,  no,  madam. 

Alc.  The  fear  of  their  departure  troubles  you  very 
much.  Go  when  you  like,  gentlemen ;  but  I  tell  you  be- 
forehand that  I  shall  not  leave  until  you  leave. 


**  I  have  already  said  that  Grimarest  stated  that  Moli^re  had  prepared 
a  translation  of  Lucretius  in  verse ;  and  that  he  intended  to  read  part  of 
it  at  an  evening-party  given  at  the  house  of  M.  du  Broussin,  in  1664,  but 
did  not  think  his  verses  worthy  of  coming  after  those  of  Boileau,  who 
read  before  him.  All  this  rests  upon  very  slight  tradition  ;  the  only  traces 
of  Lucretius  in  Moli^re's  works  are  a  few  lines  of  The  Citizen  7vhn  apes 
the  Nobleman  (See  Vol.  IIL),  and  the  above  passage. 


SCENE  VII.1  THE   MISANTHROPE.  215 

Ac.  Unless  it  inconveniences  this  lady,  I  have  nothing 
to  call  me  elsewhere  the  whole  day, 

Cl.  I,  provided  I  am  present  when  the  King  retires,^* 
I  have  no  other  matter  to  call  me  away. 

Cel.  (7(?  Alceste).     You  only  joke,  I  fancy. 

Alc.  Not  at  all.  We  shall  soon  see  whether  it  is  me  of 
whom  you  wish  to  get  rid. 

Scene  VI. — ^Alceste,  Celimene,  !]&liante,  Acaste,  Phi- 

LINTE,  ClITANDRE,  BaSQUE. 

Bas.  {^To  Alceste).  There  is  a  man  down  stairs,  sir,  who 
wishes  to  speak  to  you  on  business  which  cannot  be  post- 
poned. 

Alc.  Tell  him  that  I  have  no  such  urgent  business. 

Bas.  He  wears  a  jacket  with  large  plaited  skirts  em- 
broidered with  gold. 

Cel.  {To  Alceste).  Go  and  see  who  it  is,  or  else  let 
him  come  in. 

Scene  VII. — Alceste,  Celimkne,  Eliante,  Acaste,  Phi- 
linte,  Clitandre,  a  Guard  of  the  Marechaussee.^® 

Alc.  (^Going  to  meet  the  guard).  What  may  be  your 
pleasure?     Come  in,  sir. 

Guard.  I  would  have  a  few  words  privately  with  you, 
sir. 

Alc.  You  may  speak  aloud,  sir,  so  as  to  let  me  know. 

Guard.  The  Marshalls  of  France,  whose  commands  I 
bear,  hereby  summon  you  to  appear  before  them  immedi- 
ately, sir. 

Alc.  Whom?    Me,  sir? 

Guard.  Yourself 

Alc.  And  for  what  ? 


15  The  orig;inal  hss petit  couche.    See  Vol.  I.,  p.  151. 

1*  The  dress  of  the  gfuards  of  the  marechaussee,  was  something'  like 
that  of  the  "  buffetiers  "  of  the  Tower  of  London  ;  hence  the  allusion  to 
"  the  plaited  skirts."  The  marechaux  de  France  formed  a  tribunal,  which 
inquired  into  affairs  of  honour  among  noblemen  or  officers.  The  garde 
de  la  connetablie  was  under  its  orders,  and  made  the  offended  parties 
appear  before  the  tribunal  of  the  marechaussee,  who  settled  the  reparation 
to  be  given.    See  also  page  191,  note  3. 


2l6  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [act  iii. 

Phil.  (^To  Alceste).  It  is  this  ridiculous  affair  between 
you  and  Oronte. 

Cel.   (  To  Philinte).     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Phil.  Oronto  and  he  have  been  insulting  each  other 
just  now  about  some  trifling  verses  which  he  did  not  like; 
and  the  Marshalls  wish  to  nip  the  affair  in  the  bud. 

Alc,  But  I  shall  never  show  any  base  complacency. 

Phil.  But  you  must  obey  the  summons  :  come,  get  ready. 

Alc.  How  will  they  settle  this  between  us?  Will  the 
edict  of  these  gentlemen  oblige  me  to  approve  of  the  verses 
which  are  the  cause  of  our  quarrel  ?  I  will  not  retract 
what  I  have  said ;  I  think  them  abominable. 

Phil.  But  with  a  little  milder  tone  .    .    . 

Alc.  I  will  not  abate  one  jot ;  the  verses  are  execra- 
ble. 

Phil.  You  ought  to  show  some  more  accommodating 
spirit.     Come  along. 

Alc.  I  shall  go,  but  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  retract. 

Phil.  Go  and  show  yourself. 

Alc.  Unless  an  express  order  from  the  King  himself 
commands  me  to  approve  of  the  verses  which  cause  all  this 
trouble,  I  shall  ever  maintain,  egad,  that  they  are  bad,  and 
that  a  fellow  deserves  hanging  for  making  them,"  (^To 
Clitandre  and  A  caste  who  are  laughing).  Hang  it !  gen- 
tlemen, I  did  not  think  I  was  so  amusing. 

Cel.  Go  quickly  whither  you  are  wanted. 

Alc.  I  am  going,  madam ;  but  shall  come  back  here  to 
finish  our  discussion. 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — Clitandre,  Acaste. 
Cl.  My  dear  marquis,  you  appear  mightily  pleased  with 
yourself;    everything  amuses  you,  and  nothing  discom- 
poses you.     But  really  and  truly,  think  you,  without  flat- 

iT  Tradition  pretends  that  when  Boileau  was  told  that  Colbert  was  very 
intimate  with  Chapelain,  that  even  the  King  liked  the  latter's  poem 
La  PucelU,  and  that  therefore  the  first-mentioned  should  be  more  careful 
in  his  criticisms,  he  exclaimed,  "The  King  and  M.  Colbert  may  do  what 
they  please,  but  unless  his  Majesty  expressly  commands  me  to  consider 
the  verses  of  M.  Chapelain  good,  I  shall  always  maintain  that  a  man, 
after  having  written  such  a  poem,  deserves  to  be  hanged." 


SCENE  I.] 


THE   MISANTHROPE.  217 


tering  yourself,  that  you  have  good  reasons  for  appearing 
so  joyful. 

Ac.  Egad,  I  do  not  find,  on  looking  at  myself,  any 
matter  to  be  sorrowful  about.  I  am  wealthy,  I  am  young, 
and  descend  from  a  family  which,  with  some  appearance 
of  truth,  may  be  called  noble  ;  and  I  think  that,  by  the 
rank  which  my  lineage  confers  upon  me,  there  are  very 
few  offices  to  which  I  might  not  aspire.  As  for  courage, 
which  we  ought  especially  to  value,  it  is  well  known — this 
without  vanity — that  I  do  not  lack  it ;  and  people  have 
seen  me  carry  on  an  affair  of  honour  in  a  manner  suffi- 
ciently vigorous  and  brisk.  As  for  wit,  I  have  some,  no 
doubt ;  and  as  for  good  taste,  to  judge  and  reason  upon 
everything  without  study;  at  "first  nights,"  of  which  I 
am  very  fond,  to  take  my  place  as  a  critic  upon  the  stage, 
to  give  my  opinion  as  a  judge,  to  applaud,  and  point  out 
the  best  passages  by  repeated  bravoes,  I  am  sufficiently 
adroit ;  I  carry  myself  well,  and  am  good-looking,  have 
particularly  fine  teeth,  and  a  good  figure.  I  believe,  with- 
out flattering  myself,  that,  as  for  dressing  in  good  taste,  very 
few  will  dispute  the  palm  with  me.  I  find  myself  treated 
with  every  possible  consideration,  very  much  beloved  by 
the  fair  sex;  and  I  stand  very  well  with  the  King,  With 
all  that,  I  think,  dear  marquis,  that  one  might  be  satisfied 
with  oneself  anywhere. 

Cl.  True.  But,  finding  so  many  easy  conquests  else- 
where, why  come  you  here  to  utter  fruitless  sighs  ? 

Ac.  I  ?  Zounds  !  I  have  neither  the  wish  nor  the  dis- 
position to  put  up  with  the  indifference  of  any  woman,  I 
leave  it  to  awkward  and  ordinary  people  to  burn  con- 
stantly for  cruel  fair  maidens,  to  languish  at  their  feet,  and 
to  bear  with  their  severities,  to  invoke  the  aid  of  sighs  and 
tearS;  and  to  endeavour,  by  long  and  persistent  assiduities, 
to  obtain  what  is  denied  to  their  little  merit.  But  men  of 
my  stamp,  marquis,  are  not  made  to  love  on  trust,  and  be 
at  all  the  expenses  themselves.  Be  the  merit  of  the  fair 
ever  so  great,  I  think,  thank  Heaven,  that  we  have  our 
value  as  well  as  they  ;  that  it  is  not  reasonable  to  enthrall 
a  heart  like  mine  without  its  costing  them  anything  ;  and 
that,  to  weigh  everything  in  a  just  scale,  the  advances 
should  be,  at  least,  reciprocal. 


2l8  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  in. 

Cl.  Then  you  think  that  you  are  right  enough  here, 
marquis  ? 

Ac.  I  have  some  reason,  marquis,  to  think  so. 

Cl.  Believe  me,  divest  yourself  of  this  great  mistake  ? 
you  flatter  yourself,  dear  friend,  and  are  altogether  self- 
deceived. 

Ac.  It  is  true.  I  flatter  myself,  and  am,  in  fact,  alto- 
gether, self-deceived. 

Cl.  But  what  causes  you  to  judge  your  happiness  to  be 
complete  ? 

Ac.  I  flatter  myself. 

Cl.  Upon  what  do  you  ground  your  belief? 

Ac.  I  am  altogether  self-deceived. 

Cl.  Have  you  any  sure  proofs? 

Ac.  I  am  mistaken,  I  tell  you. 

Cl.  Has  Celimene  made  you  any  secret  avowal  of  her 
inclinations  ? 

Ac.  No,  I  am  very  badly  treated  by  her. 

Cl.  Answer  me,  I  pray. 

Ac.   I  meet  with  nothing  but  rebuffs. 

Cl.  a  truce  to  your  raillery ;  and  tell  me  what  hope 
she  has  held  out  to  you. 

Ac.  I  am  the  rejected,  and  you  are  the  lucky  one.  She 
has  a  great  aversion  to  me,  and  one  of  these  days  I  shall 
have  to  hang  myself 

Cl.  Nonsense.  Shall  we  two,  marquis,  to  adjust  our 
love  affairs,  make  a  compact  together  ?  Whenever  one  of 
us  shall  be  able  to  show  a  certain  proof  of  having  the 
greater  share  in  Celimene's  heart,  the  other  shall  leave  the 
field  free  to  the  supposed  conqueror,  and  by  that  means 
rid  him  of  an  obstinate  rival. 

Ac.  Egad  !  you  please  me  with  these  words,  and  I  agree 
to  that  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.     But,  hush. 
Scene  II. — Celimene,  Acaste,  Clitandre. 

Cel.  What !  here  still  ? 

Cli.  Love,  madam,  detains  us. 

Cel.  I  hear  a  carriage  below.    Do  you  know  whose  it  is? 

Cll   No. 

Scene  III. — Celimene,  Acaste,  Clitandre,  Basque. 
Bas.  Arsinoe,  Madam,  is  coming  up  to  see  you. 


scBNKV.)  THE  MISANTHROPE.  2I9 

Cel.  What  does  the  woman  want  with  me? 

Bas.  ;6liante  is  down  stairs  talking  to  her. 

Cel.  What  is  she  thinking  about,  and  what  brings  her 
here? 

Ac.  She  has  everywhere  the  reputation  of  being  a  con- 
summate prude,  and  her  fervent  zeal   .    .    . 

Cel.  Psha,  downright  humbug.  In  her  inmost  soul  she 
is  as  worldly  as  any ;  and  her  every  nerve  is  strained  to 
hook  some  one,  without  being  successful,  however.  She 
can  only  look  with  envious  eyes  on  the  accepted  lovers  of 
others;  and  in  her  wretched  condition,  forsaken  by  all, 
she  is  for  ever  railing  against  the  blindness  of  the  age. 
She  endeavours  to  hide  the  dreadful  isolation  of  her  home 
under  a  false  cloak  of  prudishness ;  and  to  save  the  credit 
of  her  feeble  charms,  she  brands  as  criminal  the  power 
which  they  lack.  Yet  a  swain  would  not  come  at  all  amiss 
to  the  lady;  and  she  has  even  a  tender  hankering  after 
Alceste.  Every  attention  that  he  pays  me,  she  looks  upon 
as  a  theft  committed  by  me,  and  as  an  insult  to  her  attrac- 
tions; and  her  jealous  spite,  which  she  can  hardly  hide, 
breaks  out  against  me  at  every  opportunity,  and  in  an  un- 
derhand manner.  In  short,  I  never  saw  anything,  to  my 
fancy,  so  stupid.    She  is  impertinent  to  the  last  degree  .  . 

Scene  IV. — Arsinoe:,  Celimene,  Clitandre,  Acaste. 

Cel.  Ah!  what  happy  chance  brings  you  here,  madam? 
I  was  really  getting  uneasy  about  you. 

Ars.  I  have  come  to  give  you  some  advice  as  a  matter 
of  duty. 

Cel.  How  very  glad  I  am  to  see  you ! 

{Exeunt  Clitandre  and  Acaste,  laughing). 

Scene  V. — Arsinoe,  Celimene. 

Ars.  They  could  not  have  left  at  a  more  convenient 
opportunity. 

Cel.  Shall  we  sit  down  ? 

Ars.  It  is  not  necessary.  Friendship,  madam,  must 
especially  show  itself  in  matters  which  may  be  of  conse- 
quence to  us;  and  as  there  are  none  of  greater  importance 
than  honour  and  decorum,  I  come  to  prove  to  you,  by  an 


220  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  in. 

advice  which  closely  touches  your  reputation,  the  friend- 
ship which  I  feel  for  you.  Yesterday  I  was  with  some 
j)eople  of  rare  virtue,  where  the  conversation  turned  upon 
you;  and  there,  your  conduct,  which  is  causing  some  stir, 
was  unfortunately,  madam,  far  from  being  commended. 
That  crowd  of  people,  whose  visits  you  permit,  your  gal- 
lantry and  the  noise  it  makes,  were  criticised  rather  more 
freely  and  more  severely  than  I  could  have  wished.  You 
can  easily  imagine  whose  part  I  took.  I  did  all  I  could 
to  defend  you.  I  exonerated  you,  and  vouched  for  the 
purity  of  your  heart,  and  the  honesty  of  your  intentions. 
But  you  know  there  are  things  in  life,  which  one  cannot 
well  defend,  although  one  may  have  the  greatest  wish  to 
do  so ;  and  I  was  at  last  obliged  to  confess  that  the  way 
in  which  you  lived  did  you  some  harm;  that,  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world,  it  had  a  doubtful  look;  that  there  was  no 
story  so  ill-natured  as  not  to  be  everywhere  told  about  it; 
and  that,  if  you  liked,  your  behaviour  might  give  less 
cause  for  censure.  Not  that  I  believe  that  decency  is  in 
any  way  outraged.  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  harbour 
such  a  thought !  But  the  world  is  so  ready  to  give  credit 
to  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  crime,  and  it  is  not  enough  to 
live  blameless  one's  self  Madam,  I  believe  you  to  be  too 
sensible  not  to  take  in  good  part  this  useful  counsel,  and 
not  to  ascribe  it  only  to  the  inner  promptings  of  an  af- 
fection that  feels  an  interest  in  your  welfare. 

Cel.  Madam,  I  have  a  great  many  thanks  to  return  you. 
Such  counsel  lays  me  under  an  obligation  ;  and,  far  from 
taking  it  amiss,  I  intend  this  very  moment  to  repay  the 
favour,  by  giving  you  an  advice  which  also  touches  your 
reputation  closely ;  and  as  I  see  you  prove  yourself  my 
friend  by  acquainting  me  with  the  stories  that  are  current 
of  me,  I  shall  follow  so  nice  an  example,  by  informing 
you  what  is  said  of  you.  In  a  house  the  other  day,  where 
I  paid  a  visit,  I  met  some  people  of  exemplary  merit,  who, 
while  talking  of  the  proper  duties  of  a  well  spent  life,  turned 
the  topic  of  the  conversation  upon  you,  madam.  There  your 
prudishness  and  your  too  fervent  zeal  were  not  at  all  cited 
as  a  good  example.  This  affectation  of  a  grave  demeanour, 
your  eternal  conversations  on  wisdom  and  honour,  your 
mincings  and  mouthings  at  the  slightest  shadows  of  in- 


scBNK  v.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  221 

dency,  which  an  innocent  though  ambiguous  word  may 
convey,  that  lofty  esteem  in  which  you  hold  yourself,  and 
those  pitying  glances  which  you  cast  upon  all,  your  fre- 
quent lectures  and  your  acrid  censures  on  things  which  are 
pure  and  harmless;  all  this,  if  I  may  speak  frankly  to  you, 
madam,  was  blamed  unanimously.  What  is  the  good,  said 
they,  of  this  modest  mien  and  this  prudent  exterior,  which 
is  belied  by  all  the  rest  ?  She  says  her  prayers  with  the 
utmost  exactness;  but  she  beats  her  servants  and  pays 
them  no  wages.  She  displays  great  fervour  in  every  place 
of  devotion  ;  but  she  paints  and  wishes  to  appear  hand- 
some. She  covers  the  nudities  in  her  pictures  ;  but  loves 
the  reality.  As  for  me,  I  undertook  your  defence  against 
everyone,  and  positively  assured  them  that  it  was  nothing 
but  scandal ;  but  the  general  opinion  went  against  me, 
and  they  came  to  the  conclusion  that  you  would  do  well 
to  concern  yourself  less  about  the  actions  of  others,  and 
take  a  little  more  pains  with  your  own  ;  that  one  ought  to 
look  a  long  time  at  one's  self  before  thinking  of  con- 
demning other  people ;  that  when  we  wish  to  correct 
others,  we  ought  to  add  the  weight  of  a  blameless  life ;  and 
that  even  then,  it  would  be  better  to  leave  it  to  those 
whom  Heaven  has  ordained  for  the  task.  Madam,  I  also 
believe  you  to  be  too  sensible  not  to  take  in  good  part  this 
useful  counsel,  and  not  to  ascribe  it  only  to  the  inner 
promptings  of  an  affection  that  feels  an  interest  in  your 
welfare. 

Ar.  To  whatever  we  may  be  exposed  when  we  reprove, 
I  did  not  expect  this  retort,  madam,  and,  by  its  very  sting, 
I  see  how  my  sincere  advice  has  hurt  your  feelings. 

Cel.  On  the  contrary,  madam  ;  and,  if  we  were  reason- 
able, those  mutual  counsels  would  become  customary.  If 
honestly  made  use  of,  it  would  to  a  great  extent  destroy 
the  excellent  opinion  people  have  of  themselves.  It  de- 
pends entirely  on  you  whether  we  shall  continue  this  trust- 
worthy practice  with  equal  zeal,  and  whether  we  shall  take 
great  care  to  tell  each  other,  between  ourselves,  what  we 
hear,  you  of  me,  I  of  you. 

Ar.  Ah  !  madam,  I  can  hear  nothing  said  of  you.  It 
is  in  me  that  people  find  so  much  to  reprove. 

Cel.  Madam,  it  is  easy,  I  believe,  to  blame  or  praise 


222  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  hi. 

everything;  and  everyone  may  be  right,  according  to 
their  age  and  taste.  There  is  a  time  for  gallantry,  there 
is  one  also  for  prudishness.  One  may  out  of  policy  take  to 
it,  when  youthful  attractions  have  faded  away.  It  some- 
times serves  to  hide  vexatious  ravages  of  time.  I  do  not 
say  that  I  shall  not  follow  your  example,  one  of  these  days. 
Those  things  come  with  old  age  ;  but  twenty,  as  everyone 
well  knows,  is  not  an  age  to  play  the  prude. 

Ar.  You  certainly  pride  yourself  upon  a  very  small 
advantage,  and  you  boast  terribly  of  your  age.  Whatever 
difference  there  may  be  between  your  years  and  mine, 
there  is  no  occasion  to  make  such  a  tremendous  fuss  about 
it ;  and  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know,  madam,  why  you  should 
get  so  angry,  and  what  makes  you  goad  me  in  this  manner. 

Cel.  And  I,  madam,  am  at  an  equal  loss  to  know  why 
one  hears  you  inveigh  so  bitterly  against  me  everywhere. 
Must  I  always  suffer  for  your  vexations  ?  Can  I  help  it, 
if  people  refuse  to  pay  you  any  attentions?  If  men  will 
fall  in  love  with  me,  and  will  persist  in  offering  me  each 
day  those  attentions  of  which  your  heart  would  wish  to 
see  me  deprived,  I  cannot  alter  it,  and  it  is  not  my  fault. 
I  leave  you  the  field  free,  and  do  not  prevent  you  from 
having  charms  to  attract  people. 

Ar.  Alas !  and  do  you  think  that  I  would  trouble 
myself  about  this  crowd  of  lovers  of  which  you  are  so 
vain,  and  that  it  is  pot  very  easy  to  judge  at  what  price 
they  may  be  attracted  now-a-days  ?  Do  you  wish  to  make 
it  be  believed,  that,  judging  by  what  is  going  on,  your 
merit  alone  attracts  this  crowd  ;  that  their  affection  for 
you  is  strictly  honest,  and  that  it  is  for  nothing  but  your 
virtue  that  they  all  pay  you  their  court  ?  People  are  not 
blinded  by  those  empty  pretences ;  the  world  is  not  duped 
in  that  way ;  and  I  see  many  ladies  who  are  capable  of 
inspiring  a  tender  feeling,  yet  who  do  not  succeed  in 
attracting  a  crowd  of  beaux ;  and  from  that  fact  we  may 
draw  our  conclusion  that  those  conquests  are  not  altogether 
made  without  some  great  advances ;  that  no  one  cares  to 
sigh  for  us,  for  our  handsome  looks  only ;  and  that  the 
attentions  bestowed  on  us  are  generally  dearly  bought. 
Do  not  therefore  puff  yourself  up  with  vain-glory  about 
the  trifling  advantages  of  a  poor  victory  3  and  moderate 


SCENE  VII.]  1"HE   MISANTHROPE.  223 

slightly  the  pride  on  your  good  looks,  instead  of  looking 
down  upon  people  on  account  of  them.  If  I  were  at  all 
envious  about  your  conquests,  I  dare  say,  that  I  might 
manage  like  other  people ;  be  under  no  restraint,  and  thus 
show  plainly  that  one  may  have  lovers,  when  one  wishes 
for  them. 

Cel.  Do  have  some  then,  madam,  and  let  us  see  you 
try  it ;  endeavour  to  please  by  this  extraordinary  secret ; 
and  without  .    .    . 

Ar.  Let  us  break  off  this  conversation,  madam,  it  might 
excite  too  much  both  your  temper  and  mine ;  and  I  would 
have  already  taken  my  leave,  had  I  not  been  obliged  to 
wait  for  my  carriage. 

Cel.  Please  stay  as  long  as  you  like,  and  do  not  hurry 
yourself  on  that  account,  madam.  But  instead  of  weary- 
ing you  any  longer  with  my  presence,  I  am  going  to  give 
you  some  more  pleasant  company.  This  gentleman,  who 
comes  very  opportunely,  will  better  supply  my  place  in 
entertaining  you.^* 

Scene  VI. — ^Alceste,  Celimene,  Arsinoe. 

Cel,  Alceste,  I  have  to  write  a  few  lines,  which  I  cannot 
well  delay.  Please  to  stay  with  this  lady ;  she  will  all  the 
more  easily  excuse  my  rudeness. 

Scene  VII. — Alceste,  Arsinoe. 

Ar.  You  see,  I  am  left  here  to  entertain  you,  until  my 
coach  comes  round.  She  could  have  devised  no  more 
charming  treat  for  me,  than  such  a  conversation.  Indeed, 
people  of  exceptional  merit  attract  the  esteem  and  love  of 

18  One  of  the  commentators  of  Moli^re,  M.  Auger,  has  justly  observed 
how  admirably  Celimene  and  Arsinoe  vent  their  malignity,  under  the 
pretext  of  doing  their  duty  as  friends.  Both  are  equally  bad,  both  hate 
and  insult  each  other ;  but  yet,  although  their  feelings  and  situations  are 
the  same,  Moliere  shows  with  a  master  hand  the  difference  between  them. 
The  prude  Arsinoe  is  bitter  and  angry  in  '-er  speech  ;  the  coquette  Celi- 
mene jocular  and  calm  ;  the  first,  by  getting  in  a  rage,  is  wholly  off  her 
guard,  and  exposes  herself  to  the  most  terrible  blows ;  the  second,  keep- 
ing cool,  preserves  all  her  advantages,  and  makes  the  best  possible  use  of 
them.  The  reason  of  it  is  that  the  one  is  of  a  certain  age,  and  of  uncertain 
charms,  whilst  the  other  is  in  the  flower  of  her  youth  and  beauty  ;  the  one 
is  a  hypocrite,  whose  mask  has  been  snatched  off;  the  other  is  a  rather 
impudent  young  woman,  whose  faults  are  obvious. 


224  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  in. 

every  one ;  and  yours  has  undoubtedly  some  secret  charm, 
which  makes  me  feel  interested  in  all  your  doings.  I 
could  wish  that  the  Court,  with  a  real  regard  to  your 
merits  would  do  more  justice  to  your  deserts.  You  have 
reason  to  complain  ;  and  it  vexes  me  to  see  that  day  by 
day  nothing  is  done  for  you. 

Alc.  For  me,  madam  ?  And  by  what  right  could  I 
pretend  to  anything  ?  What  service  have  I  rendered  to 
the  State  ?  Pray,  what  have  I  done,  so  brilliant  in  itself, 
to  complain  of  the  Court  doing  nothing  for  me  ? 

Ar.  Not  everyone  whom  the  State  delights  to  honour, 
has  rendered  signal  services;  there  must  be  an  opportu- 
nity as  well  as  the  power ;  and  the  abilities  which  you 
allow  us  to  perceive,  ought  .    .    . 

Alc.  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  have  no  more  of  my 
abilities,  I  pray.  What  would  you  have  the  Court  to  do? 
It  would  have  enough  to  do,  and  have  its  hands  full,  to 
discover  the  merits  of  people. 

Ar.  Sterling  merit  discovers  itself.  A  great  deal  is 
made  of  yours  in  certain  places ;  and  let  me  tell  you  that, 
not  later  than  yesterday,  you  were  highly  spoken  of  in 
two  distinguished  circles,  by  people  of  very  great  standing. 

Alc.  As  for  that,  madam,  everyone  is  praised  now-a- 
days,  and  very  little  discrimination  is  shown  in  our  times. 
Everything  is  equally  endowed  with  great  merit,  so  that  it 
is  no  longer  an  honour  to  be  lauded.  Praises  abound, 
they  throw  them  at  one's  head,  and  even  my  valet  is  put 
in  the  gazette.'' 

Ar.  As  for  me,  I  could  wish  that,  to  bring  yourself  into 
greater  notice,  some  place  at  Court  might  tempt  you.  If 
you  will  only  give  me  a  hint  that  you  seriously  think 
about  it,  a  great  many  engines  might  be  set  in  motion  to 
serve  you ;  and  I  know  some  people  whom  I  could  em- 


19  The  only  newspaper  then  (1666)  known  was  the  oflRcial  Gazette  de 
France,  established  by  Renaudot  in  163 1 ;  Denis  de  Sallo  founded,  in 
1665,  a  literary  and  scientific  paper,  called  k  youniai  des  Savants.  As 
the  news  given  by  the  Gazette  was  very  meagre,  there  arose  the  gazettes 
secretes,  which  were  rigorously  prosecuted,  and,  if  possible,  suppressed, 
and  the  authors,  if  got  hold  of.  publicly  flagellated  and  imprisoned. — Com- 
pare Byron's  line  in  Don.  Juan,  "  And  even  my  servant's  put  in  the 
Gazette." 


SCENE  VII.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  22$ 

ploy  for  you,  and  who  would  manage  the  matter  smoothly 
enough. 

Alc.  And  what  should  I  do  when  I  got  there,  madam? 
My  disposition  rather  prompts  me  to  keep  away  from  it. 
Heaven,  when  ushering  me  into  the  world,  did  not  give 
me  a  mind  suited  for  the  atmosphere  of  a  Court.  I  have 
not  the  qualifications  necessary  for  success,  nor  for  making 
my  fortune  there.  To  be  open  and  candid  is  my  chief 
talent ;  I  possess  not  the  art  of  deceiving  people  in  con- 
versation ;  and  he  who  has  not  the  gift  of  concealing  his 
thoughts,  ought  not  to  stay  long  in  those  places.  When 
not  at  Court,  one  has  not,  doubtless,  that  standing,  and 
the  advantage  of  those  honourable  titles  which  it  bestows 
now-a-days  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  one  has  not  the  vexa- 
tion of  playing  the  silly  fool.  One  has  not  to  bear  a 
thousand  galling  rebuffs;  one  is  not,  as  it  were,  forced  to 
praise  the  verses  of  mister  so-and.so,  to  laud  madam 
such  and  such,  and  to  put  up  with  the  whims  of  some 
ingenuous  marquis.** 

Ar.  Since  you  wish  it,  let  us  drop  the  subject  of  the 
Court :  but  I  cannot  help  grieving  for  your  amours ;  and, 
to  tell  you  my  opinions  candidly  on  that  head,  I  could 
heartily  wish  your  aifections  better  bestowed.  You  cer- 
tainly deserve  a  much  happier  fate,  and  she  who  has  fas- 
cinated you  is  unworthy  of  you. 

Alc.  But  in  saying  so,  madam,  remember,  I  pray,  that 
this  lady  is  your  friend. 

Ar.  True.  But  really  my  conscience  revolts  at  the 
thought  of  suffering  any  longer  the  wrong  that  is  done  to 
you.  The  position  in  which  I  see  you  afflicts  my  very 
soul,  and  I  caution  you  that  your  affections  are  betrayed. 

Alc.  This  is  certainly  showing  me  a  deal  of  good  feel- 
ing, madam,  and  such  information  is  very  welcome  to  a 
lover. 

Ar.  Yes,  for  all  C6Hm6ne  is  my  friend,  I  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  call  her  unworthy  of  possessing  the  heart  of  a  man 
of  honour ;  and  hers  only  pretends  to  respond  to  yours. 

'"This  is,  I  believe,  the  only  direct  attack  Moli^re  ever  made  against 
the  Court,  and  by  so  doing,  he  ran  the  risk  of  offending  Louis  XIV. 
Part  of  this  outbreak  may  be  found  in  Juvenal,  and  also  one  of  Boileau's 
satires. 

VOL.  II.  P 


226  THE   MISANTHROPE.  •        [act  iv. 

Alc.  That  is  very  possible,  madam,  one  cannot  look 
into  the  heart ;  but  your  charitable  feelings  might  well 
have  refrained  from  awakening  such  a  suspicion  as  mine. 

Ar.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  say  no  more  about  it,  if 
you  do  not  wish  to  be  undeceived. 

Alc.  Just  so.  But  whatever  may  be  openly  said  on  this 
subject  is  not  half  so  annoying  as  hints  thrown  out ;  and 
I  for  one  would  prefer  to  be  plainly  told  that  only  which 
could  be  clearly  proved. 

Ar.  Very  well !  and  that  is  sufficient ;  I  can  fully  en- 
lighten you  upon  this  subject.  I  will  have  you  believe 
nothing  but  what  your  own  eyes  see.  Only  have  the 
kindness  to  escort  me  as  far  as  my  house  ;  and  I  will  give 
you  undeniable  proof  of  the  faithlessness  of  your  fair  one's 
heart ;  *'  and  if,  after  that,  you  can  find  charms  in  anyone 
else,  we  will  perhaps  find  you  some  consolation. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene  I. — 6liante,  Philinte. 

Phil.  No,  never  have  I  seen  so  obstinate  a  mind,  nor 
a  reconciliation  more  difficult  to  effect.  In  vain  was 
Alceste  tried  on  all  sides ;  he  would  still  maintain  his 
opinion  ;  and  never,  I  believe,  has  a  more  curious  dispute 
engaged  the  attention  of  those  gentlemen.  "  No,  gentle- 
men," exclaimed  he,  "I will  not  retract,  and  I  shall  agree 
with  you  on  every  point,  except  on  this  one.  At  what  is 
Oronte  offended  ?  and  with  what  does  he  reproach  me  ? 
Does  it  reflect  upon  his  honour  that  he  cannot  write 
well  ?  What  is  my  opinion  to  him,  which  he  has  alto- 
gether wrongly  construed  ?  One  may  be  a  perfect  gentle- 
man, and  write  bad  verses  ;  those  things  have  nothing  to 
do  with  honour.  I  take  him  to  be  a  gallant  man  in  every 
way  ;  a  man  of  standing,  of  merit,  and  courage,  anything 
you  like,  but  he  is  a  wretched  author.     I  shall  praise,  if 

"  The  original  has  a  bad  play  on  words,  or  rather  on  the  antithesis  of 
thought  as  shown  in  the  sentence:  je  vous ferai  voir  une preuve  fidele, 
de  Vinfidilite  du  cceur  de  voire  belle.  This  was  quite  in  the  taste  of  the 
times,  though  happily  no  longer  so. 


SCENE  I.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  22; 

you  wish,  his  mode  of  living,  his  lavishness,  his  skill  in 
riding,  in  fencing,  in  dancing ;  but  as  to  praising  his 
verses,  I  am  his  humble  servant ;  and  if  one  has  not  the 
gift  of  composing  better,  one  ought  to  leave  off  rhyming 
altogether,  unless  condemned  to  it  on  forfeit  of  one's 
life.""  In  short,  all  the  modification  they  could  with  dif- 
ficulty obtain  from  him,  was  to  say,  in  what  he  thought  a 
much  gentler  tone — "  I  am  sorry,  Sir,  to  be  so  difficult  to 
please ;  and  out  of  regard  for  you,  I  could  wish,  with  all 
my  heart,  to  have  found  your  sonnet  a  little  better."  And 
they  compelled  them  to  settle  this  dispute  quickly  with 
an  embrace. 

El.  He  is  very  eccentric  in  his  doings ;  but  I  must  con- 
fess that  I  think  a  great  deal  of  him ;  and  the  candour 
upon  which  he  prides  himself  has  something  noble  and 
heroic  in  it.  It  is  a  rare  virtue  now-a-days,  and  I,  for 
one,  should  not  be  sorry  to  meet  with  it  everywhere. 

Phil.  As  for  me,  the  more  I  see  of  him,  the  more  I  am 
amazed  at  that  passion  to  which  his  whole  heart  is  given 
up.  I  cannot  conceive  how,  with  a  disposition  like  his, 
he  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to  love  at  all ;  and  still  less 
can  I  understand  how  your  cousin  happens  to  be  the  per- 
son to  whom  his  feelings  are  inclined. 

El.  That  shows  that  love  is  not  always  produced  by 
compatibility  of  temper;  and  in  this  case,  all  the  pretty 
theories  of  gentle  sympathies  are  belied.'^ 

Phil.  But  do  you  think  him  beloved  in  return,  to  judge 
from  what  we  see? 

El.  That  is  a  point  not  easily  decided.  How  can  we 
judge  whether  it  be  true  she  loves  ?  Her  own  heart  is  not 
so  very  sure  of  what  it  feels.     It  sometimes  loves,  without 

*2See  page  216,  note  16.     This  passage  reminds  me  of  a  nearly  similar 
one  in  the  ninth  satire  of  Boileau,  in  which  he  says  of  Chapelain — 
Let  aye  his  honesty  and  his  fair  name  be  praised ; 
His  candour  and  civiUty  be  highly  valued ; 
Let  him  be  gentle,  pliant,  upright,  o'er-polite; 
Amen,  I  say  to  this,  not  one  word  will  I  utter. 
But  when  they  say  his  writings  are  the  very  best, 
When  he's  the  amplest  paid  of  all  the  wits  in  town, 
When  they  declare  him  king  of  all  the  author's  tribe, 
Then  I'm  quite  in  a  rage,  anxious  to  scribble  too. 

^The  word  "Sympathy"  was  then  used  to  express  in  -an  elegant 
manner,  the  feeling  of  love. 


228  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [activ. 

being  quite  aware  of  it,  and  at  other  times  thinks  it  does, 
without  the  least  grounds. 

Phil.  I  think  that  our  friend  will  have  more  trouble 
with  this  cousin  of  yours  than  he  imagines ;  and  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  if  he  were  of  my  mind,  he  would  bestow 
his  affections  elsewhere ;  and  by  a  better  choice,  we  should 
see  him,  madam,  profit  by  the  kind  feelings  which  your 
heart  evinces  for  him. 

El.  As  for  me,  I  do  not  mince  matters,  and  I  think  that 
in  such  cases  we  ought  to  act  with  sincerity.  I  do  not  run 
counter  to  his  tender  feelings;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  in- 
terested in  them ;  and,  if  it  depended  only  on  me,  I  would 
unite  him  to  the  object  of  his  love.  But  if,  as  it  may  hap- 
pen in  love  affairs,  his  affections  should  receive  a  check, 
and  if  Celimene  should  respond  to  the  love  of  any  one 
else,  I  could  easily  be  prevailed  upon  to  listen  to  his  ad- 
dresses, and  I  should  have  no  repugnance  whatever  to 
them  on  account  of  their  rebuff  elsewhere. 

Phil.  Nor  do  I,  from  my  side,  oppose  myself,  madam, 
to  the  tender  feelings  which  you  entertain  for  him;  and 
he  himself,  if  he  wished,  could  inform  you  what  I  have 
taken  care  to  say  to  him  on  that  score.  But  if,  by  the 
union  of  those  two,  you  should  be  prevented  from  accept- 
ing his  attentions,  all  mine  would  endeavour  to  gain  that 
great  favour  which  your  kind  feelings  offer  to  him  ;  only 
too  happy,  madam,  to  have  them  transferred  to  myself,  if 
his  heart  could  not  respond  to  yours. 

El.  You  are  in  the  humour  to  jest,  Philinte. 

Phil.  Not  so,  madam,  I  am  speaking  my  inmost  feel- 
ings. I  only  wait  the  opportune  moment  to  offer  myself 
openly,  and  am  wishing  most  anxiously  to  hurry  its 
advent. 

Scene  II. — ^Alceste,  Ellajite,  Philinte. 

Alc.  Ah,  madam  !  obtain  me  justice  for  an  offence 
which  triumphs  over  all  my  constancy. 

El.  What  ails  you?     What  disturbs  you? 

Alc.  This  much  ails  me,  that  it  is  death  to  me  to  think 
of  it ;  and  the  upheaving  of  all  creation  would  less  over- 
whelm me  than  this  accident.  It  is  all  over  with  me  .  .  . 
My  love  ...  I  cannot  speak. 


SCBNKn.J  THE  MISANTHROPE.  229 

El.  Just  endeavour  to  be  composed. 

Alc.  Oh,  just  Heaven  !  must  so  many  charms  be  allied 
to  most     odious   vices  of  the  most  perfidious  hearts. 

El.  But,  once  more,  what  can  have  .    .    , 

Alc.  Alas !  All  is  ruined  '  I  am !  I  am  betrayed  !  I  am 
stricken  to  death !  C^limene  .  .  .  would  you  credit  it ! 
C6limene  deceives  me  and  is  faithless."* 

El.  Have  you  just  grounds  for  believing  so  ? 

Phil.  Perhaps  it  is  a  suspicion,  rashly  conceived ;  and 
your  jealous  temper  often  harbours  fancies  .    .    . 

Alc.  Ah !  'Sdeath,  please  to  mind  your  own  business, 
sir.  {^To  Eliante).  Her  treachery  is  but  too  certain,  for  I 
have  in  my  pocket  a  letter  in  her  own  handwriting.  Yes, 
madam,  a  letter,  intended  for  Oronte,  has  placed  before 
my  eyes  my  disgrace  and  her  shame ;  Oronte,  whose 
addresses  I  believed  she  avoided,  and  whom,  of  all  my 
rivals,  I  feared  the  least. 

Phil.  A  letter  may  deceive  by  appearances,  and  is 
sometimes  not  so  culpable  as  may  be  thought. 

Alc.  Once  more,  sir,  leave  me  alone,  if  you  please,  and 
trouble  yourself  only  about  your  own  concerns. 

El.  You  should  moderate  your  passion;  and  the  in- 
sult .    .    . 

Alc.  You  must  be  left  to  do  that,  madam ;  it  is  to  you 
that  my  heart  has  recourse  to-day  to  free  itself  from  this 
goading  pain.  Avenge  me  on  an  ungrateful  and  perfidious 
relative  who  basely  deceives  such  constant  tenderness. 
Avenge  me  for  an  act  that  ought  to  fill  you  with  horror. 

El.  I  avenge  you?     How? 

Alc.  By  accepting  my  heart.  Take  it,  madam,  instead 
of  the  false  one  \  it  is  in  this  way  that  I  can  avenge 
myself  upon  her ;  and  I  shall  punish  her  by  the  sincere 
attachment,  and  the  profound  love,  the  respectful  cares, 
the  eager  devotions,  the  ceaseless  attentions  which  this 
heart  will  henceforth  offer  up  at  your  shrine. 

El.  I  certainly  sympathize  with  you  in  your  sufferings, 
and  do  not  despise  your  proffered  heart ;  but  the  wrong 


2* The  words  from  '•  What  ails  you"  till  "faithless,"  are  with  some 
slight  alterations,  taken  from  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre,  Act  iv.,  Scene  7, 
Vol.  I. 


230  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  iv. 

done  may  not  be  so  great  as  you  think,  and  you  might 
wish  to  forego  this  desire  for  revenge.  When  the  injury 
proceeds  from  a  beloved  object,  we  form  many  designs 
which  we  never  execute ;  we  may  find  as  powerful  a  reason 
as  we  like  to  break  off  the  connection,  the  guilty  charmer 
is  soon  again  innocent ;  all  the  harm  we  wish  her  quickly 
vanishes,  and  we  know  what  a  lover's  anger  means. 

Alc.  No,  no,  madam,  no.  The  offence  is  too  cruel ; 
there  will  be  no  relenting,  and  I  have  done  with  her. 
Nothing  shall  change  the  resolution  I  have  taken,  and  I 
should  hate  myself  for  ever  loving  her  again.  Here  she 
comes.  My  anger  increases  at  her  approach.  I  shall 
taunt  her  with  her  black  guilt,  completely  put  her  to  the 
blush,  and,  after  that,  bring  you  a  heart  wholly  freed  from 
her  deceitful  attractions. 

Scene  III. — CfeLiMiNE,  Alceste. 

Alc.  (Aside).  Grant,  Heaven,  that  I  may  control  my 
temper. 

Cel.  {Aside).  Ah!  {To  Alceste).  What  is  all  this 
trouble  that  I  see  you  in,  and  what  mean  those  long-drawn 
sighs,  and  those  black  looks  which  you  cast  at  me? 

Alc.  That  all  the  wickedness  of  which  a  heart  is  capa- 
ble is  not  to  be  compared  to  your  perfidy ;  that  neither 
fate,  hell,  nor  Heaven  in  its  wrath,  ever  produced  anything 
so  wicked  as  you  are.** 

Cel.  These  are  certainly  pretty  compliments,  which  I 
admire  very  much. 

Alc.  Do  not  jest.  This  is  no  time  for  laughing.  Blush 
rather,  you  have  cause  to  do  so ;  and  I  have  undeniable 
proofs  of  your  treachery.  This  is  what  the  agitations  of 
my  mind  prognosticated ;  it  was  not  without  cause  that 
my  love  took  alarm  ;  by  these  frequent  suspicions,  which 
were  hateful  to  you,  I  was  trying  to  discover  the  misfortune 
which  my  eyes  have  beheld ;  and  in  spite  of  all  your  care 
and  your  skill  in  dissembling,  my  star  foretold  me  what  I 
had  to  fear.  But  do  not  imagine  that  I  will  bear  un- 
avenged this  slight  of  being  insulted.     I  know  that  we 

*  These  words,  from  "  That  all "  till  "you  are,"  are  also  in  Don  Garcia 
of  Navarre,  Act  iv.,  Scene  8,  Vol.  I. 


scKNKiii.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  23 1 

have  no  command  over  our  inclinations,  that  love  will 
everywhere  spring  up  spontaneously,  that  there  is  no  en- 
tering a  heart  by  force,  and  that  every  soul  is  free  to  name 
its  conqueror :  I  should  thus  have  no  reason  to  complain 
if  you  had  spoken  to  me  without  dissembling,  and  re- 
jected my  advances  from  the  very  beginning  ;  my  heart 
would  then  have  been  justified  in  blaming  fortune  alone. 
But  to  see  my  love  encouraged  by  a  deceitful  avowal  on 
your  part,  is  an  action  so  treacherous  and  perfidious,  that 
it  cannot  meet  with  too  great  a  punishment ;  and  I  can 
allow  my  resentment  to  do  anything.  Yes,  yes;  after 
such  an  outrage,  fear  everything;  I  am  no  longer  myself, 
I  am  mad  with  rage.^®  My  senses,  struck  by  the  deadly 
blow  with  which  you  kill  me,  are  no  longer  governed  by 
reason ;  I  give  way  to  the  outbursts  of  a  just  wrath,  and 
am  no  longer  responsible  for  what  I  may  do. 

Cel.  Whence  comes,  I  pray,  such  a  passion  ?  Speak  ! 
Have  you  lost  your  senses  ? 

Alc.  Yes,  yes,  I  lost  them  when,  to  my  misfortune,  I 
beheld  you,  and  thus  took  the  poison  which  kills  me,  and 
when  I  thought  to  meet  with  some  sincerity  in  those 
treacherous  charms  that  bewitched  me. 

Cel.  Of  what  treachery  have  you  to  complain  ? 

Alc.  Ah !  how  double-faced  she  is !  how  well  she 
knows  how  to  dissemble  !  But  I  am  fully  prepared  with 
the  means  of  driving  her  to  extremities.  Cast  your  eyes 
here  and  recognize  your  writing.  This  picked-up  note  is 
sufficient  to  confound  you,  and  such  proof  cannot  easily 
be  refuted. 

Cel.  And  this  is  the  cause  of  your  perturbation  of 
spirits  ? 

Alc.  You  -do  not  blush  on  beholding  this  writing  ! 

Cel.  And  why  should  I  blush? 

Alc.  What !  You  add  boldness  to  craft !  Will  you  dis- 
own this  note  because  it  bears  no  name? 

Cel.  Why  should  I  disown  it,  since  I  wrote  it." 

2*  The  whole  of  Alceste's  speech,  from  "Blush  rather"  until  "mad 
with  rage,"  is,  with  some  slight  alterations,  taken  from  Don  Garcia  of 
Navarre^  Act  iv.,  Scene  8,  Vol.  I. 

27  The  words  "Whence  comes  I  pray"  until  "since  I  wrote  it,"  are, 
with  some  slight  alterations,  taken  from  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre,  Act.  ii., 
Scene  5,  Vol.  I. 


234  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  iv. 

silly,  and  am  vexed  at  my  own  simplicity  in  still  pre- 
serving the  least  kindness  for  you.  I  ought  to  place  my 
affections  elsewhere,  and  give  you  a  just  cause  for  com- 
plaint. 

Alc.  Ah!  you  traitress!  mine  is  a  stmnge  infatuation 
for  you ;  those  tender  expressions  are,  no  doubt,  meant 
only  to  deceive  me.  But  it  matters  little,  I  must  submit 
to  my  fate;  my  very  soul  is  wrapt  up  in  you;  I  will  see  to 
the  bitter  end  how  your  heart  will  act  towards  me,  and 
whether  it  will  be  black  enough  to  deceive  me. 

Cel.  No,  'you  do  not  love  me  as  you  ought  to  love. 

Alc.  Indeed !  Nothing  is  to  be  compared  to  my  ex- 
ceeding love;  and,  in  its  eagerness  to  show  itself  to  the 
whole  world,  it  goes  even  so  far  as  to  form  wishes  against 
you.  Yes,  I  could  wish  that  no  one  thought  you  hand- 
some, that  you  were  reduced  to  a  miserable  existence ;  that 
Heaven,  at  your  birth,  had  bestowed  upon  you  nothing ; 
that  you  had  no  rank,  no  nobility,  no  wealth,  so  that  I 
might  openly  proffer  my  heart,  and  thus  make  amends  to 
you  for  the  injustice  of  such  a  lot;  and  that,  this  very 
day,  I  might  have  the  joy  and  the  glory  of  seeing  you  owe 
everything  to  my  love.^ 

Cel.  This  is  wishing  me  well  in  a  strange  way !  ^' 
Heaven  grant  that  you  may  never  have  occasion  .  .  .  But 
here  comes  Monsieur  Dubois  curiously  decked  out. 

Scene  IV. — Celimene,  Alceste,  Dubois. 

Alc.  What  means  this  strange  attire,  and  that  frightened 
look?     What  ails  you? 
Du.  Sir  .    .    . 

^  The  words  "  so  that "  until  "  love"  are,  with  some  alterations,  found 
also  in  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre,  Act  i.,  Scene  3,  Vol.  I. 

'1  It  has  been  said  that  Moli^re  has  reproduced  an  incident  of  his 
own  life,  with  his  wife,  out  of  despair  that  her  love  for  the  Count  of 
Guiche  was  not  returned,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  Duke  of 
Lauzun,  and  that  the  liaison  was  betrayed  to  Moliere  by  the  Abbe  de 
Richelieu ;  that  when  Moliere  reproached  his  wife  with  her  conduct, 
she  answered  that  she  was  guilty  only  of  thoughtlessness,  and  begged 
his  pardon :  that  he  forgave  her ;  that  for  some  time  they  lived  happily 
together ;  but  that,  on  her  return  to  Paris,  she  broke  out  again.  For 
all  these  and  similar  stories,  there  is  no  other  foundation  than  the  well- 
known  pamphlet.  La  Fameuse  comedienne.  (See  Introductory  Notice 
to  The  Impromptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  I.    See  also  Note  85,  page  27.) 


SCENE  IV.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  335 

Alc.  Well? 

Du.  The  most  mysterious  event. 

Alc.  What  is  it? 

Du.  Our  affairs  are  turning  out  badly,  sir. 

Alc.  What?  . 

Du.  Shall  I  speak  out? 

Alc.  Yes,  do,  and  quickly. 

Du.  Is  there  no  one  there  ? 

Alc.  Curse  your  trifling!     Will  you  speak? 

Du.  Sir,  we  must  beat  a  retreat. 

Alc.  What  do  you  mean? 

Du.  We  must  steal  away  from  this  quietly. 

Alc.  And  why? 

Du.  I  tell  you  that  we  must  leave  this  place. 

Alc.  The  reason? 

Du.  You  must  go,  sir,  without  staying  to  take  leave. 

Alc  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  strain  ? 

Du.  The  meaning  is,  sir,  that  you  must  make  yourself 
scarce. 

Alc.  I  shall  knock  you  on  the  head  to  a  certainty, 
booby,  if  you  do  not  explain  yourself  more  clearly. 

Du.  A  fellow,  sir,  with  a  black  dress,  and  as  black  a 
look,  got  as  far  as  the  kitchen  to  leave  a  paper  with  us, 
scribbled  over  in  such  a  fashion  that  old  Nick  himself 
could  not  have  read  it.  It  is  about  your  law-suit,  I  make 
no  doubt ;  but  the  very  devil,  I  believe,  could  not  make 
head  nor  tail  of  it. 

Alc.  Well!  what  then?  What  has  the  paper  to  do 
with  the  going  away  of  which  you  speak,  you  scoundrel  ? 

Du.  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that,  about  an  hour  afterwards, 
a  gentleman  who  often  calls,  came  to  ask  for  you  quite 
eagerly,  and  not  finding  you  at  home,  quietly  told  me, 
knowing  how  attached  I  am  to  you,  to  let  you  know  .  .  . 
Stop  a  moment,  what  the  deuce  is  his  name  ? 

Alc.  Never  mind  his  name,  you  scoundrel,  and  tell  me 
what  he  told  you. 

Du.  He  is  one  of  your  friends,  in  short,  that  is  suffi- 
cient. He  told  me  that  for  your  very  life  you  must  get 
away  from  this,  and  that  you  are  threatened  with  arrest. 

Alc.  But  how!  has  he  not  specified  anything? 

Du.  No.     He  asked    me  for  ink  and  paper,  and  has 


234  THE  MISANTHROPE.  ^act  iv. 

silly,  and  am  vexed  at  my  own  simplicity  in  still  pre- 
serving the  least  kindness  for  you.  I  ought  to  place  my 
affections  elsewhere,  and  give  you  a  just  cause  for  com- 
plaint. 

Alc.  Ah !  you  traitress !  mine  is  a  stmnge  infatuation 
for  you ;  those  tender  expressions  are,  no  doubt,  meant 
only  to  deceive  me.  But  it  matters  little,  I  must  submit 
to  my  fate;  my  very  soul  is  wrapt  up  in  you;  I  will  see  to 
the  bitter  end  how  your  heart  will  act  towards  me,  and 
whether  it  will  be  black  enough  to  deceive  me. 

Cel.  No,  you  do  not  love  me  as  you  ought  to  love. 

Alc.  Indeed !  Nothing  is  to  be  compared  to  my  ex- 
ceeding love;  and,  in  its  eagerness  to  show  itself  to  the 
whole  world,  it  goes  even  so  far  as  to  form  wishes  against 
you.  Yes,  I  could  wish  that  no  one  thought  you  hand- 
some, that  you  were  reduced  to  a  miserable  existence ;  that 
Heaven,  at  your  birth,  had  bestowed  upon  you  nothing ; 
that  you  had  no  rank,  no  nobility,  no  wealth,  so  that  I 
might  openly  proffer  my  heart,  and  thus  make  amends  to 
you  for  the  injustice  of  such  a  lot;  and  that,  this  very 
day,  I  might  have  the  joy  and  the  glory  of  seeing  you  owe 
everything  to  my  love.^ 

Cel.  This  is  wishing  me  well  in  a  strange  way  ! '' 
Heaven  grant  that  you  may  never  have  occasion  .  .  .  But 
here  comes  Monsieur  Dubois  curiously  decked  out. 

Scene  IV. — Celim^ne,  Alceste,  Dubois. 

Alc.  What  means  this  strange  attire,  and  that  frightened 
look?     What  ails  you? 
Du.  Sir  .    .    . 

*•  The  words  "  so  that  "  until  "  love"  are,  with  some  alterations,  found 
also  in  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre,  Act  i.,  Scene  3,  Vol.  I. 

'1  It  has  been  said  that  Molifere  has  reproduced  an  incident  of  his 
own  life,  with  his  wife,  out  of  despair  that  her  love  for  the  Count  of 
Guiche  was  not  returned,  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  Duke  of 
Lauzun,  and  that  the  liaison  was  betrayed  to  Moliere  by  the  Abbe  de 
Richelieu ;  that  when  Moliere  reproached  his  wife  with  her  conduct, 
she  answered  that  she  was  guilty  only  of  thoughtlessness,  and  begged 
his  pardon :  that  he  forgave  her ;  that  for  some  time  they  lived  happily 
together ;  but  that,  on  her  return  to  Paris,  she  broke  out  again.  For 
all  these  and  similar  stories,  there  is  no  other  foundation  than  the  well- 
known  pamphlet.  La  Fameuse  comedienne.  (See  Introductory  Notice 
to  The  Impromptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  I.     See  also  Note  85,  page  27.) 


SCKNB  IV.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  235 

Alc.  Well? 

Du.  The  most  mysterious  event. 

Alc.  What  is  it? 

Du.  Our  affairs  are  turning  out  badly,  sir. 

Alc.  What?  . 

Du.  Shall  I  speak  out? 

Alc.  Yes,  do,  and  quickly. 

Du.  Is  there  no  one  there  ? 

Alc.   Curse  your  trifling!     Will  you  speak? 

Du.   Sir,  we  must  beat  a  retreat. 

Alc.  What  do  you  mean? 

Du.  We  must  steal  away  from  this  quietly. 

Alc.  And  why? 

Du.  I  tell  you  that  we  must  leave  this  place. 

Alc.  The  reason  ? 

Du.  You  must  go,  sir,  without  staying  to  take  leave. 

Alc.  But  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  strain  ? 

Du.  The  meaning  is,  sir,  that  you  must  make  yourself 
scarce. 

Alc.  I  shall  knock  you  on  the  head  to  a  certainty, 
booby,  if  you  do  not  explain  yourself  more  clearly. 

Du.  A  fellow,  sir,  with  a  black  dress,  and  as  black  a 
look,  got  as  far  as  the  kitchen  to  leave  a  paper  with  us, 
scribbled  over  in  such  a  fashion  that  old  Nick  himself 
could  not  have  read  it.  It  is  about  your  law-suit,  I  make 
no  doubt ;  but  the  very  devil,  I  believe,  could  not  make 
head  nor  tail  of  it. 

Alc.  Well!  what  then?  What  has  the  paper  to  do 
with  the  going  away  of  which  you  speak,  you  scoundrel  ? 

Du.  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that,  about  an  hour  afterwards, 
a  gentleman  who  often  calls,  came  to  ask  for  you  quite 
eagerly,  and  not  finding  you  at  home,  quietly  told  me, 
knowing  how  attached  I  am  to  you,  to  let  you  know  .  .  . 
Stop  a  moment,  what  the  deuce  is  his  name  ? 

Alc.  Never  mind  his  name,  you  scoundrel,  and  tell  me 
what  he  told  you. 

Du.  He  is  one  of  your  friends,  in  short,  that  is  suffi- 
cient. He  told  me  that  for  your  very  life  you  must  get 
away  from  this,  and  that  you  are  threatened  with  arrest. 

Alc.  But  how!  has  he  not  specified  anything? 

Du.  No.     He  asked    me  for  ink  and  paper,  and  has 


236  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  v. 

sent  you  a  line  from  which  you  can,  I  think,  fathom  the 
mystery ! 

Alc.  Hand  it  over  then. 

Cel.  What  can  all  this  mean? 

Alc.  I  do  not  know;  but  I  am  anxious  to  be  informed. 
Have  you  almost  done,  devil  take  you? 

Du.  {After  having  fumbled  for  some  time  for  the  Note'). 
After  all,  sir,  I  have  left  it  on  your  table. 

Alc.  I  do  not  know  what  keeps  me  from  .    .    . 

Cel.  Do  not  put  yourself  in  a  passion,  but  go  and 
unravel  this  perplexing  business. 

Alc.  It  seems  that  fate,  whatever  I  may  do  has  sworn 
to  prevent  my  having  a  conversation  with  you.  But,  to 
get  the  better  of  her,  allow  me  to  see  you  again,  madam, 
before  the  end  of  the  day. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Alceste,  Philinte. 

Alc.  I  tell  you,  my  mind  is  made  up  about  it. 

Phil.  But,  whatever  this  blow  may  be,  does  it  compel 
you  .    .    - 

Alc.  You  may  talk  and  argue  till  doomsday  if  you 
like,  nothing  can  avert  me  from  what  I  have  said.  The 
age  we  live  in  is  too  perverse,  and  I  am  determined  to 
withdraw  altogether  from  intercourse  with  the  world. 
What !  when  honour,  probity,  decency,  and  the  laws,  are 
all  against  my  adversary  \  when  the  equity  of  my  claim  is 
everywhere  cried  up ;  when  my  mind  is  at  rest  as  to  the 
justice  of  my  cause,  I  meanwhile  see  myself  betrayed  by 
its  issue  !  What !  I  have  got  justice  on  my  side,  and  I 
lose  my  case  !  A  wretch,  whose  scandalous  history  is  well 
known,  comes  off  triumphant  by  the  blackest  falsehood  ! 
All  good  faith  yields  to  his  treachery  !  He  finds  the 
means  of  being  in  the  right,  whilst  cutting  my  throat ! 
The  weight  of  his  dissimulation,  so  full  of  cunning,  over- 
throws the  right  and  turns  the  scales  of  justice  !  He  obtains 
even  a  decree  of  court  to  crown  his  villainy.  And,  not 
content  with  the  wrong  he  is  doing  me,  there  is  abroad  in 


SCKNKI.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  237 

society  an  abominable  book,  of  which  fhe  very  reading  is 
to  be  condemned,  a  book  that  deserves  the  utmost  severity, 
and  of  which  the  scoundrel  has  the  impudence  to  proclaim 
me  the  author.*^  Upon  this,  Oronte  is  observed  to  mutter, 
and  tries  wickedly  to  support  the  imposture  !  He,  who 
holds  an  honourable  position  at  Court,  to  whom  I  have 
done  nothing  except  having  been  sincere  and  candid,  who 
came  to  ask  me  in  spite  of  myself  of  my  opinion  of  some 
of  his  verses ;  and  because  I  treat  him  honestly,  and  will 
not  betray  either  him  or  truth,  he  assists  in  overwhelming 
me  with  a  trumped-up  crime.  Behold  him  now  my 
greatest  enemy  !  And  I  shall  never  obtain  his  sincere 
forgiveness,  because  I  did  not  think  that  his  sonnet  was 
good !  Sdeath  !  to  think  that  mankind  is  made  thus  ! 
The  thirst  for  fame  induces  them  to  do  such  things ! 
This  is  the  good  faith,  the  virtuous  zeal,  the  justice  and 
the  honour  to  be  found  amongst  them!  Let  us  begone; 
it  is  too  much  to  endure  the  vexations  they  are  devising; 
let  us  get  out  of  this  wood,  this  cut-throat  hole;  and 
since  men  behave  towards  each  other  like  real  wolves, 
wretches,  you  shall  never  see  me  again  as  long  as  I  live. 

Phil.  I  think  you  are  acting  somewhat  hastily ;  and  the 
harm  done  is  not  so  great  as  you  would  make  it  out. 
Whatever  your  adversary  dares  to  impute  to  you  has  not 
had  the  effect  of  causing  you  to  be  arrested.  We  see  his 
false  reports  defeating  themselves,  and  this  action  is  likely 
to  hurt  him  much  more  than  you. 

Alc.  Him?  he  does  not  mind  the  scandal  of  such 
tricks  as  these.  He  has  a  license  to  be  an  arrant  knave; 
and  this  event,  far  from  damaging  his  position,  will  ob- 
tain him  a  still  better  standing  to-morrow. 

Phil.  In  short,  it  is  certain  that  little  notice  has  been 
taken  of  the  report  which  his  malice  spread  against  you;** 
from  that  side  you  have  already  nothing  to  fear ;  and  as 
for  your  law-suit,  of  which  you  certainly  have  reason  to 

^  According  to  Grimarest,  there  was  at  that  time  secretly  in  circulation 
'■  a  terrible  book,"  published  under  Molifere's  name.  Of  course  it  was 
said  that  his  opponents,  very  angry  at  the  Tartuffe,  were  the  authors  of  it: 
hence  the  allusion. 

33  These  words  of  Philinte  may  perhaps  vaguely  refer  to  the  accusation 
brought  by  Montfieury  against  Moli^re  in  1663.  (See  Prefatory  Memoir, 
Vol.  I.) 


338  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [act  v. 

complain,  it  is  easy  for  you  to  bring  the  trial  on  afresh, 
and  against  this  decision  .    .    . 

Alc.  No,  I  shall  leave  it  as  it  is.  Whatever  cruel 
wrong  this  verdict  may  inflict,  I  shall  take  particular 
care  not  to  have  it  set  aside.  We  see  too  plainly  how 
right  is  maltreated  in  it,  and  I  wish  it  to  go  down  to 
posterity  as  a  signal  proof,  as  a  notorious  testimony  of  the 
wickedness  of  the  men  of  our  age.  It  may  indeed  cost 
me  twenty  thousand  francs,  but  at  the  cost  of  twenty 
thousand  francs  I  shall  have  the  right  of  railing  against 
the  iniquity  of  human  nature,  and  of  nourishing  an  un- 
dying hatred  of  it. 

Phil.  But  after  all  .    .    . 

Alc.  But  after  all,  your  pains  are  thrown  away.  What 
can  you,  sir,  say  upon  this  head  ?  Would  you  have  the 
assurance  to  wish,  to  my  face,  to  excuse  the  villainy  of  all 
that  is  happening? 

Phil.  No,  I  agree  with  you  in  all  that  you  say.  Every- 
thing goes  by  intrigue,  and  by  pure  influence.  It  is  only 
trickery  which  carries  the  day  in  our  time,  and  men  ought 
to  act  differently.  But  is  their  want  of  equity  a  reason  for 
wishing  to  withdraw  from  their  society?  All  human  fail- 
ings give  us,  in  life,  the  means  of  exercising  our  philoso- 
phy. It  is  the  best  employment  for  virtue;  and  if  pro- 
bity reigned  everywhere,  if  all  hearts  were  candid,  just, 
and  tractable,  most  of  our  virtues  would  be  useless  to  us, 
inasmuch  as  their  functions  are  to  bear,  without  annoy- 
ance, the  injustice  of  others  in  our  good  cause  ;  and  just 
in  the  same  way  as  a  heart  full  of  virtue  .    .    . 

Alc.  I  know  that  you  are  a  most  fluent  speaker,  sir; 
that  you  always  abound  in  fine  arguments;  but  you  are 
wasting  your  time,  and  all  your  fine  speeches.  Reason 
tells  me  to  retire  for  my  own  good.  I  cannot  command 
my  tongue  sufficiently ;  I  cannot  answer  for  what  I  might 
say,  and  should  very  probably  get  myself  into  a  hundred 
scrapes.  Allow  me,  without  any  more  words,  to  wait  for 
Celimdne.  She  must  consent  to  the  plan  that  brings  me 
here.  I  shall  see  whether  her  heart  has  any  love  for  me ; 
and  this  very  hour  will  prove  it  to  me. 

Phil.  Let  us  go  upstairs  to  Eliante,  and  wait  her 
coming. 


SCENE  II.]  THE   MISANTHROPE.  239 

Alc.  No,  my  mind  is  too  harassed.  You  go  and  see 
her,  and  leave  me  in  this  little  dark  corner  with  my  black 
care. 

Phil.  That  is  strange  company  to  leave  you  in;  I  v/ill 
induce  Eliante  to  come  down. 


Scene  II. — Celim^ne,  Oronte,  Alceste. 

Oron.  Yes,  madam,  it  remains  for  you  to  consider 
whether,  by  ties  so  dear,  you  will  make  me  wholly  yours, 
I  must  be  absolutely  certain  of  your  affection  :  a  lover  dis- 
likes to  be  held  in  suspense  upon  such  a  subject.  If  the 
ardour  of  my  affection  has  been  able  to  move  your  feelings, 
you  ought  not  to  hesitate  to  let  me  see  it ;  and  the  proof, 
after  all,  which  I  ask  of  you,  is  not  to  allow  Alceste  to 
wait  upon  you  any  longer;  to  sacrifice  him  to  my  love, 
and,  in  short,  to  banish  him  from  your  house  this  very 
day. 

Cel.  But  why  are  you  so  incensed  against  him ;  you, 
whom  I  have  so  often  heard  speak  of  his  merits? 

Oron.  There  is  no  need,  madam,  of  these  explanations; 
the  question  is,  what  are  your  feelings  ?  Please  to  choose 
between  the  one  or  the  other;  my  resolution  depends  en- 
tirely upon  yours. 

Alc.  (^Coming  out  of  his  corner).  Yes,  this  gentleman 
is  right,  madam,  you  must  make  a  choice;  and  his  request 
agrees  perfectly  with  mine.  I  am  equally  eager,  and  the 
same  anxiety  brings  me  here.  My  love  requires  a  sure 
proof.  Things  cannot  go  on  any  longer  in  this  way,  and 
the  moment  has  arrived  for  explaining  your  feelings. 

Oron.  I  have  no  wish,  sir,  in  any  way  to  disturb,  by 
an  untimely  affection,  your  good  fortune. 

Alc.  And  I  have  no  wish,  sir,  jealous  or  not  jealous,  to 
share  aught  in  her  heart  with  you. 

Oron.  If  she  prefers  your  affection  to  mine   .    .    . 

Alq.  If  she  has  the  slightest  inclination  towards 
you  .    .    . 

Oron.   I  swear  henceforth  not  to  pretend  to  it  again. 

Alc.  I  peremptorily  swear  never  to  see  her  again. 

Oron.  Madam,  it  remains  with  you  now  to  speak  openly. 

Alc.  Madam,  you  can  explain  yourself  fearlessly. 


240  THE   MISANTHROPE.  [act  v. 

Orox.  You  have  simply  to  tell  us  where  your  feelings 
are  engaged. 

Alc  You  may  simply  finish  the  matter,  by  choosing 
between  us  two. 

Oron.  What !  you  seem  to  be  at  a  loss  to  make  such  a 
choice. 

Alc.  What !  your  heart  still  wavers,  and  appears  un- 
certain ! 

Cel.  Good  Heavens,  how  out  of  place  is  this  persist- 
ence, and  how  very  unreasonable  you  both  show  your- 
selves !  It  is  not  that  I  do  not  know  whom  to  prefer,  nor 
is  it  my  heart  that  wavers.  It  is  not  at  all  in  doubt  be- 
tween you  two;  and  nothing  could  be  more  quickly  ac- 
complished than  the  choice  of  my  affections.  But  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  feel  too  confused  to  pronounce  such  an  avowal 
before  you;  I  think  that  disobliging  words  ought  not  to 
be  spoken  in  people's  presence ;  that  a  heart  can  give  suf- 
ficient proof  of  its  attachment  without  going  so  far  as  to 
break  with  every  one ;  and  gentler  intimations  suffice  to 
inform  a  lover  of  the  ill  success  of  his  suit. 

Oron.  No,  no,  I  do  not  fear  a  frank  avowal ;  for  my  part 
I  consent  to  it. 

Alc.  And  I  demand  it;  it  is  just  its  very  publicity  that 
I  claim,  and  I  do  not  wish  you  to  spare  my  feelings  in  the 
least.  Your  great  study  has  always  been  to  keep  friends 
with  every  one ;  but  no  more  trifling,  no  more  uncertainty. 
You  must  explain  yourself  clearly,  or  I  shall  take  your 
refusal  as  a  verdict ;  I  shall  know,  for  my  part,  how  to 
interpret  your  silence,  and  shall  consider  it  as  a  confirma- 
tion of  the  worst. 

Oron.  I  owe  you  many  thanks,  sir,  for  this  wrath,  and 
I  say  in  every  respect  as  you  do. 

Cel.  How  you  weary  me  with  such  a  whim  !  Is  there 
any  justice  in  what  you  ask  ?  And  have  I  not  told  you 
what  motive  prevents  me  ?  1  will  be  judged  by  Elian te, 
who  is  just  coming. 

Scene  III. — Eliante,  Philinte,  Celimene,  Oronte, 
Alceste. 

Cel.  Good  cousin,  I  am  being  persecuted  here  by  peo- 
ple who  have  concerted  to  do  so.     They  both  demand, 


SCENE  iv]  THBf  MISANTHROPE.  24I 


with  the  same  warmth,  that  I  should  declare  whom  my  heart 
has  chosen,  and  that,  by  a  decision  which  I  must  give  be- 
fore their  very  faces,  I  should  forbid  one  of  them  to  tease 
me  any  more  with  his  attentions.  Say,  has  ever  such  a 
thing  been  done  ? 

El.  Pray,  do  not  consult  me  upon  such  a  matter.  You 
may  perhaps  address  yourself  to  a  wrong  person,  for  I  am 
decidedly  for  people  who  speak  their  mind. 

Oron.  Madam,  it  is  useless  for  you  to  decline. 

Alc.  All  your  evasions  here  will  be  badly  supported. 

Oron.  You  must  speak,  you  must,  and  no  longer 
waver. 

Alc.  You  need  do  no  more  than  remain  silent. 

Oron.  I  desire  but  one  word  to  end  our  discussions. 

Alc.  To  me  your  silence  will  convey  as  much  as  speech. 

Scene  IV. — Arsino6,  Ce:lim6ne,  :6liante,  Alceste, 
Philinte,  Acaste,  Clitandre,  Oronte. 

Ac.  {^To  Celimene).  We  have  both  come,  by  your 
leave,  madam,  to  clear  up  a  certain  little  matter  with  you. 

Cl.  {To  Oronte  and  Alceste).  Your  presence  happens 
fortunately,  gentlemen ;  for  this  affair  concerns  you  also. 

Ars.  {To  Celimene).  No  doubt  you  are  surprised  at 
seeing  me  here,  madam;  but  these  gentlemen  are  the 
cause  of  my  intrusion.  They  both  came  to  see  me,  and 
complained  of  a  proceeding  which  I  could  not  have  cre- 
dited. I  have  too  high  an  opinion  of  your  kindness  of 
heart  ever  to  believe  you  capable  of  such  a  crime ;  my 
eyes  even  have  refused  to  give  credence  to  their  strongest 
proofs,  and  in  my  friendship,  forgetting  trivial  disagree- 
ments, I  have  been  induced  to  accompany  them  here,  to 
hear  you  refute  this  slander. 

Ac.  Yes,  madam,  let  us  see,  with  composure,  how  you 
will  manage  to  bear  this  out.  This  letter  has  been  written 
by  you,  to  Clitandre. 

Cl.  And  this  tender  epistle  you  have  addressed  to 
Acaste. 

Ac.  {To  Oronte  and  Alceste).  This  writing  is  not  alto- 
gether unknown  to  you,  gentlemen,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
that  her  kindness  has  before  now  made  you  familiar  with 

VOL.   II.  Q 


242  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [act  v. 

her  hand.      But  this  is  well  worth  the  trouble  of  read- 
ing." 

**  Y(fu  are  a  strange  man  to  condemn  my  liveliness  of 
spirits,  and  to  reproach  me  that  I  am  never  so  merry  as  when 
I  am  not  with  you.  Nothing  could  be  more  unjust;  and  if 
you  do  not  come  very  soon  to  ask  my  pardon  for  this  offence, 
I  shall  never  forgive  you  as  long  as  J  live.  Our  great  hulk- 
ing booby  of  a  Viscount. ^^^^  He  ought  to  have  been  here. 
"  Our  great  hulking  booby  of  a  Viscount,  with  whom  you 
begin  your  complaints,  is  a  man  who  would  tiot  at  all  suit 
me  J  and  ever  since  I  watched  him  for  full  three-quarters  of 
an  hour  spitting  in  a  well  to  make  circles  in  the  water,  I 
never  could  have  a  good  opinion  of  him.  As  for  the  little 
Marquis  ..."  that  is  myself,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  be 
it  said  without  the  slightest  vanity,  .  .  .  ^^  As  for  the 
little  Marquis ,  who  held  my  hand  yesterday  for  a  long  while, 
I  think  that  there  is  nothing  so  diminutive  as  his  whole  per- 
son, and  his  sole  merit  consists  in  his  cloak  and  sword.  As 
to  the  man  with  the  green  shoulder  knot.' ^^^  {To  Alceste). 
It  is  your  turn  now,  Sir.  "  As  to  the  man  with  the  green 
shoulder  knot,  he  amuses  me  sometimes  with  his  bluntness 
and  his  splenetic  behaviour  j  but  there  are  hundreds  of  times 
when  I  think  him  the  greatest  bore  in  the  world.  Respecting 
the  man  with  tJie  big  waistcoat .  .  .  '"'  (7^  Oronte). 
This  is  your  share.  "  Respecting  the  man  with  the  big 
waistcoat^  who  has  thought  fit  to  set  up  as  a  wit,  and  wishes 
to  be  an  author  in  spite  of  every  one,  I  cannot  even  take  the 
trouble  to  listen  to  what  he  says;  and  his  prose  bores  me  just 


•*  Acaste  reads  the  letter  written  to  Clitandre ;  and  Clitandre,  the  one 
written  to  Acaste. 

'*  It  has  been  said  that  the  "great  hulking  booby  of  a  Viscount "  was 
intended  for  the  Count  de  Guiche,  and  that  Madame,  the  wife  of  Louis 
XIV.'s  brother,  whose  Chevalier  he  was,  wished  the  description  to  be 
omitted,  but  that  the  King  told  Moli^re  to  leave  it  in.  All  this  appears  to 
be  mere  gossip,  unsupported  by  anything. 

'*  On  page  191,  note  2,  we  find  that  Moli^re,  on  playing  the  part  of 
Alceste,  wore  a  dress  ''  ornamented  with  green  ribands  ;"  hence  the  allu- 
sion to  "  the  green  shoulder  knot." 

'^  Oronte  wore  a  big  waistcoat  (veste)  to  distinguish  himself  from  the 
other  personages.  But  afterwards  everyone  wore  such  a  waistcoat ;  and 
La  Grange  and  Vinot,  the  editors  of  the  first  collected  edition  of  Mo- 
li^re's  works,  finding  that  this  no  longer  distinguished  Oronte,  called  him 
rhomnu  au  sonnet,  the  sonnetteer. 


SCKNBVI.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  243 

as  much  as  his  poetry.  Take  it  then  for  granted  that  I  do 
not  always  enjoy  myself  so  much  as  you  think;  and  that  J 
wish  for  you,  more  than  I  care  to  say,  amongst  all  the  enter- 
tainments to  which  I  am  dragged;  and  that  the  presence  of 
those  we  love  is  an  excellent  relish  to  our  pleasures.^'' 

Cl.  Now  for  myself. 

"  Your  Clitandre,  whom  you  mention  to  me,  and  who 
has  always  such  a  quantity  of  soft  expressions  at  his  com- 
mand, is  the  last  man  for  whom  I  could  feel  any  affection. 
He  ?nust  be  crazed  in  persuading  himself  that  I  love  him; 
and  you  are  so  too  in  believing  that  I  do  not  love  you.  You 
had  better  change  your  fancies  for  his,  and  come  and  see  me 
as  often  as  you  can,  to  help  me  in  bearing  the  annoyance  of 
being  pestered  by  him. ' '  This  shows  the  model  of  a  lovely 
character,  madam ;  and  I  need  not  tell  you  what  to  call  it. 
It  is  enough.  We  shall,  both  of  us,  show  this  admirable 
sketch  of  your  heart  everywhere  and  to  everybody. 

Ac.  I  might  also  say  something,  and  the  subject  is 
tempting;  but  I  deem  you  beneath  my  anger;  and  I  will 
show  you  that  little  marquises  can  find  worthier  hearts 
than  yours  to  console  themselves. 

Scene  V. — Celimene,   Eliante,    Arsino^,    Alceste, 
Oronte,  Philinte. 

Oron.  What !  Am  I  to  be  pulled  to  pieces  in  this  fash- 
ion, after  all  that  you  have  written  to  me  ?  And  does  your 
heart,  with  all  its  semblance  of  love,  plight  its  faith  to  all 
mankind  by  turns  !  Bah,  I  have  been  too  great  a  dupe, 
but  I  shall  be  so  no  longer.  You  have  done  me  a  service, 
in  showing  yourself  in  your  true  colours  to  me.  I  am  the 
richer  by  a  heart  which  you  thus  restore  to  me,  and  find 
my  revenge  in  your  loss.  (To  Alceste).  Sir,  I  shall  no 
longer  be  an  obstacle  to  your  flame,  and  you  may  settle 
matters  with  this  lady  as  soon  as  you  please. 

Scene  -VI. — CfeuMfeNE,  Eliante,  Arsino^,  Alceste, 
Philinte. 

Ars.  (To  Celimene).  This  is  certainly  one  of  the  basest 
actions  which  I  have  ever  seen ;  I  can  no  longer  be  silent, 
and  feel  quite  upset.  Has  any  one  ever  seen  the  like  of 
it  ?    I  do  not  concern  myself  much  in  the  affairs  of  other 


244  "^"^   MISANTHROPE.  [act  v. 

people,  but  this  gentleman  (^pointing  to  Alceste),  who  has 
staked  the  whole  of  his  happiness  on  you,  an  honourable 
and  deserving  man  like  this,  and  who  worshipped  you  to 
madness,  ought  he  to  have  been  .    .    . 

Al.  Leave  me,  I  pray  you,  madam,  to  manage  my  own 
affairs  ;  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  unnecessarily.  In 
vain  do  I  see  you  espouse  my  quarrel.  I  am  unable  to 
repay  you  for  this  great  zeal ;  and  if  ever  I  intended  to 
avenge  myself  by  choosing  some  one  else,  it  would  not  be 
you  whom  I  would  select. 

Ars.  And  do  you  imagine,  sir,  that  I  ever  harboured 
such  a  thought,  and  that  I  am  so  very  anxious  to  secure 
you  ?  You  must  be  very  vain,  indeed,  to  flatter  yourself 
with  such  an  idea.  Celimene's  leavings  are  a  commodity 
of  which  no  one  needs  be  so  very  much  enamoured.  Pray, 
undeceive  yourself,  and  do  not  carry  matters  with  so  high 
a  hand.  People  like  me  are  not  for  such  as  you.  You 
will  do  much  better  to  remain  dangling  after  her  skirts, 
and  I  long  to  see  so  beautiful  a  match. 

Scene  VII.  —  C6lim6ne,  Eliante,  Alceste,  Philinte, 

Al.  {To  Celimene).  Well!  I  have  held  my  tongue, 
notwithstanding  all  I  have  seen,  and  I  have  let  everyone 
have  his  say  before  me.  Have  I  controlled  myself  long 
enough  ?  and  will  you  now  allow  me  .    .    . 

Cel.  Yes,  you  may  say  what  you  like  ;  you  are  justified 
when  you  complain,  and  you  may  reproach  me  with  any- 
thing you  please.  I  confess  that  I  am  in  the  wrong  ',  and 
overwhelmed  by  confusion  I  do  not  seek  by  any  idle  ex- 
cuse to  palliate  my  fault.  The  anger  of  the  others  I  have 
despised  ;  but  I  admit  my  guilt  towards  you.  No  doubt, 
your  resentment  is  just ;  I  know  how  culpable  I  must  ap- 
pear to  you,  that  every  thing  speaks  of  my  treachery  to 
you,  and  that,  in  short,  you  have  cause  to  hate  me.  Do 
so,  I  consent  to  it. 

Alc.  But  can  I  do  so,  you  traitress  ?  Can  I  thus  get 
the  better  of  all  my  tenderness  for  you  ?  And  although  I 
wish  to  hate  you  with  all  my  soul,  shall  I  find  a  heart 
quite  ready  to  obey  me.  (^To  Eliante  and  Philinte).  You 
se6  what  an  unworthy  passion  can  do,  and  I  call  you  both 
as  witnesses  of  my  infatuation.     Nor,  truth  to  say,  is  this 


SCKNK  VIII.]  THE  MISANTHROPE.  245 

all,  and  you  will  see  me  carry  it  out  to  the  bitter  end,  to 
show  you  that  it  is  wrong  to  call  us  wise,  and  that  in  all 
hearts  there  remains  still  something  of  the  man,  {To  Ce- 
limene).  Yes,  perfidious  creature,  I  am  willing  to  forget 
your  crimes.  I  can  find,  in  my  own  heart,  an  excuse  for 
all  your  doings,  and  hide  them  under  the  name  of  a  weak- 
ness into  which  the  vices  of  the  age  betrayed  your  youth, 
provided  your  heart  will  second  the  design  which  I  have 
formed  of  avoiding  all  human  creatures,  and  that  you  are 
determined  to  follow  me  without  delay  into  the  solitude 
in  which  I  have  made  a  vow  to  pass  my  days.  It  is  by 
that  only,  that,  in  every  one's  opinion,  you  can  repair  the 
harm  done  by  your  letters,  and  that,  after  the  scandal 
which  every  noble  heart  must  abhor,  it  may  still  be  pos- 
sible for  me  to  love  you. 

Cel.  What !  I  renounce  the  world  before  I  grow  old, 
and  bury  myself  in  your  wilderness  ! 

Alc.  If  your  affection  responds  to  mine  what  need  the 
rest  of  the  world  signify  to  you  ?  Am  I  not  sufficient  for 
you? 

Cel.  Solitude  is  frightful  to  a  widow  of  twenty.'^  I  do 
not  feel  my  mind  sufficiently  grand  and  strong  to  resolve 
to  adopt  such  a  plan.  If  the  gift  of  my  hand  can  satisfy 
your  wishes,  I  might  be  induced  to  tie  such  bonds ;  and 
marriage  .    .    . 

Alc.  No.  My  heart  loathes  you  now,  and  this  refusal 
alone  effects  more  than  all  the  rest.  As  you  are  not  dis- 
posed, in  those  sweet  ties,  to  find  all  in  all  in  me,  as  I 
would  find  all  in  all  in  you,  begone,  I  refuse  your  offer, 
and  this  much-felt  outrage  frees  me  for  ever  from  your 
unworthy  toils. 

Scene  VIII. — 6liante,  Alceste,  Philinte. 

Alc.  {To  Eliante).  Madam,  your  beauty  is  adorned  by 
a  hundred  virtues ;  and  I  never  saw  anything  in  you  but 
what  was  sincere.     For  a  long  while  I  thought  very  highly 

**  It  would  be  against  all  the  traditions  of  the  French  stage  to  let  a 
respectable  unmarried  young  lady  be  visited  by  gentlemen  ;  hence  Alceste 
says  (Act  i.,  Scene  i,  page  199),  that  "  Celimfene  is  a  young  widow." 
Arsinoe  also  would  not  have  given  vent  to  her  insinuations  (page  222)  if 
this  had  not  been  the  case. 


246  THE  MISANTHROPE.  [actt. 

of  you ;  but  allow  me  to  esteem  you  thus  for  ever,  and 
suffer  my  heart  in  its  various  troubles  not  to  offer  itself  for 
the  honour  of  your  acceptance.  I  feel  too  unworthy,  and 
begin  to  perceive  that  Heaven  did  not  intend  me  for  the 
marriage  bond;  that  the  homage  of  only  the  remainder 
of  a  heart  unworthy  of  you,  would  be  below  your  merit, 
and  that  in  short  ... 

El.  You  may  pursue  this  thought.  I  am  not  at  all 
embarassed  with  my  hand ;  and  here  is  your  friend,  who, 
without  giving  me  much  trouble,  might  possibly  accept  it 
if  I  asked  him. 

Phil.  Ah !  Madam,  I  ask  for  nothing  better  than  that 
honour,  and  I  could  sacrifice  my  life  and  soul  for  it. 

Alc.  May  you,  to  taste  true  contentment,  preserve  for 
ever  these  feelings  towards  each  other !  Deceived  on  all 
sides,  overwhelmed  with  injustice,  I  will  fly  from  an  abyss 
where  vice  is  triumphant,  and  seek  out  some  small  secluded 
nook  on  earth,  where  one  may  enjoy  the  freedom  of  being 
an  honest  man. 

Phil.  Come,  madam,  let  us  leave  nothing  untried  to 
deter  him  from  the  design  on  which  his  heart  is  set. 


LE  MEDECIN  MALGRE  LUI. 

COMEDIE. 


THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF. 

A    COMEDY    IN    THREE    ACTS. 

{THE  ORIGINAL  IN  PROSE.) 

August  6th,  1666, 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


The  Physician  in  spite  of  Himself  was  played  for  the  first  time  on  the 
6th  of  August,  1666,  according  to  Moli^re's  nearly  invariable  rule,  by 
which  he  always  produced  a  farcical  work,  which  made  people  laugh, 
after  a  serious  one,  which  had  caused  people  to  reflect.  The  plot  of  this 
play  was  not  entirely  new  ;  it  existed  probably  in  the  outline  of  the  Italian 
Commedia  dell'arte,  and  was  found  among  the  stories  related  by  the  trou- 
badours and  trouveres.  Moli^re  must  have  often  played  a  remodelling  of 
it  in  the  Provinces.  La  Grange,  in  his  Register  (see  Introductory  Notices 
to  The  School  for  Wives  critised.  Vol.  I.,),  speaks  of  a  farce  called  Le 
Fagotier,  of  another  called  Le  Fagoteux — both  words  meaning  The  Fag- 
got-Maker— and  of  a  third  called  Le  Medecin  par  force.  But  all  these 
small  plays  appear  to  refer  to  one  jocular  short  comedy,  which  was 
changed  and  doctored  to  suit  the  tastes  of  the  different  provincial  audi- 
ences. Moli^re  got  his  chief  plan  from  these,  and  probably  from  nothing 
else.  The  Physician  in  spite  of  Himself  consists  of  two  different  parts, 
each  drawn  from  a  different  source.  There  is,  first,  the  idea  of  a  clodhop- 
per on  whom  his  wife  wishes  to  be  avenged,  and  whom  she  pretends  to  be 
a  skilful  physician,  whose  zeal  has  to  be  stimulated  by  the  stick  :  and  there 
is,  secondly,  the  idea  of  a  girl  who  feigns  to  be  dumb,  but  who  recovers 
speech  again,  and  abuses  it  in  such  a  manner  that  every  one  wishes  her  to 
be  speechless. 

One  of  the  oldest  accounts  of  the  story  on  which  .Molidre's  play  is 
based,  but  which  we  are  convinced  the  French  dramatist  never  saw,  is  the 
following, — to  be  found  in  a  Sanscrit  collection.  La  Couka  Saptali. 

"  In  the  town  of  Pantchapoura  lived  a  king  called  Satroumardana.  His 
daughter,  named  Madanarekha,  had  an  abscess  in  her  throat.  The  doc- 
tors applied  all  kinds  of  plasters,  but  without  effect,  so  at  last  they  agreed 
that  there  was  no  remedy  for  the  disease.  Then  the  King  proclaimed  in 
every  country  that  he  who  cured  the  Princess  should  be  richly  rewarded. 
The  wife  of  a  Brahmin  who  lived  in  a  village,  having  heard  the  proclama- 
tion, said  to  the  messenger,  '  My  husband  is  the  most  skilful  magician 
and  charmer  in  the  world.  Take  him  with  you ;  he  will  cure  the  Princfess.' 
And  she  said  to  her  husband,  '  Pretend  to  be  a  magician  and  a  charmer, 
and  go  boldly  into  the  town  and  cure  the  Princess.  You  won't  waste 
your  time.'  The  Brahmin  went  to  the  palace  and  to  the  Princess,  sprinkled 
her  with  water,  blew  at  her,  and  imitated  the  charmers,  muttering  the 

249 


i250  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF    HIMSELF. 

while  between  his  teeth.  Suddenly  he  cried  out  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
and  uttered  a  farrago  of  the  most  absurd  words  he  could  think  of.  On 
hearing  all  these  strange  utterances,  the  Princess  was  taken  with  such  a 
fit  of  laughter,  that  the  abscess  broke  and  she  was  cured.  The  King, 
transported  with  joy,  overloaded  the  Brahmin  with  presents.'' 

It  is,  however  possible  that  Moliere  may  have  seen  Olearius'  Scientific 
ypurney  to  Moscow  and  Persia,  which  history  was  translated  into  French 
as  early  as  the  year  1656  by  the  celebrated  Wickefort. 

The  account  to  be  found  there  is  as  follows  :  "  The  Grand  Duke  Boris 
Gudenow,  who  reigned  during  the  years  1597  and  1605,  was  according  to 
the  relation  of  Olearius,  very  much  afflicted  with  the  gout.  At  a  certain 
period,  when  he  suffered  very  severe  pains,  he  caused  it  publicly  to  be 
proclaimed  at  Moscow,  that  he  would  reward  with  extraordinary  favour 
and  great  riches,  the  man,  whoever  he  might  be,  that  would  relieve  him 
from  those  pains.  It  seems  that  no  one  voluntarily  appeared  to  earn  the 
favour  of  the  Grand  Duke  :  and,  indeed,  no  wonder,  for  a  doctor  had  his 
whole  existence  at  stake  in  those  times  in  Russia  if  his  cure  failed,  upon 
some  high  or  noble  patient ;  and  Gudenow  was  in  the  habit  of  making 
the  surgeon,  as  if  he  considered  the  latter  as  absolute  master  of  nature, 
responsible  for  the  result  of  his  art. 

"  The  wife  of  a  certain  bojaar,  or  councillor  of  the  cabinet,  who  re- 
ceived very  harsh  treatment  from  her  husband,  took  the  advantage  of  this 
public  edict  of  the  Grand  Duke  to  revenge  herself,  in  a  cunning  manner, 
on  her  cruel  husband.  She  therefore  had  the  Duke  informed  that  her 
husband  possessed  an  infallible  remedy  for  the  gout,  but  that  he  was  not 
sufficiently  humane  to  impart  it. 

"  The  bojaar  was  immediately  sent  for  to  court,  and  strictly  examined. 
The  latter  declared,  by  all  that  was  holy,  that  he  was  unacquainted  with 
any  such  remedy,  and  had  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  medicine.  But 
oaths  would  not  avail  him  ;  Gudenow  had  him  severely  whipped  and  con- 
fined. When,  shortly  after,  he  was  again  examined,  he  repeated  the  same 
declarations,  adding  that  this  trick  was  probably  played  upon  him  by  his 
wife ;  the  Duke  had  him  whipped  a  second  time,  but  more  severely,  and 
threatened  him  with  death  if  he  did  not  speedily  relieve  him  from  pain. 
Seized  with  terror,  the  bojaar  was  now  entirely  at  a  loss  what  to  be  at. 
He  promised  to  do  his  best,  but  requested  a  few  days  in  order  to  have  the 
necessary  drugs  gathered.  Having  with  great  difficulty,  had  his  request 
granted,  he  sent  to  Ozirbalt,  two  days'  journey  from  Moscow,  in  order  to 
get  thence  all  sorts  of  drugs  which  were  to  be  had  there.  He  sent  for  a 
cartload  of  them,  mixed  them  all  together,  and  prepared  therewith  a  bath 
for  the  Duke,  in  the  hope  of  his  blind  cure  proving  successful.  Gudenow, 
after  having  used  the  bath,  really  found  some  relief,  and  the  bojaar  had 
his  life  spared  him.  Nevertheless,  because  he  had  known  such  an  art, 
denied  his  knowledge  of  it,  and  refused  his  assistance  to  the  Grand  Duke, 
the  latter  had  him  again  thoroughly  whipt,  and  after  being  entirely  re- 
covered, he  gave  him  a  new  dress,  two  hundred  rubles,  and  eighteen 
slaves,  by  way  of  a  present.  In  addition  to  this,  he  seriously  admonished 
the  doctor  never  to  be  revenged  on  his  vnfe.  It  is  said  that  the  bojaar,  after 
this  occurrence,  lived  many  years  in  peace  and  happiness  with  his 
SfKJUse." 

The  idea  of  a  woman  avenging  herself  on  her  husband,  by  pretending 
that  he  is  a  doctor,  and  must  be  compelled  to  exercise  his  art,  is  found  in 
many  ancient  fabliaux  ;  above  all,  in  one  of  the  twelfth  century,  Le  vilain 
Mire,  the  rustic  physician,  which  is  nearly  the  same  story  as  that  told  by 


THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  25 1 

Olearius,  except  that  it  is  the  king's  daughter  who  has  a  fish-bone  sticking 
in  her  throat,  which  prevents  her  eating  and  drinking.  The  rustic's  wife, 
who  is  the  daughter  of  a  poor  knight,  and  whom  her  husband  has  mal- 
treated, revenges  herself  in  the  same  way  as  the  bojaar's  spouse,  but  the 
cure  is  different ;  the  rustic  scratches  himself  in  all  kinds  of  ridiculous  at- 
titudes, so  that  the  royal  maiden  laughs  to  such  a  degree  that  the  fish- 
bone flies  out.  The  ending  is  also  different.  The  king,  delighted  that 
his  daughter  has  been  cured,  sends  for  a  great  many  sick  people,  and 
orders  the  physician  to  restore  them  to  health.  He  refuses,  and  is  beaten  ; 
whereupon  he  commands  a  great  fire  to  be  kindled  in  the  large  hall,  tells 
all  his  patients  that  he  has  an  infallible  remedy,  and  that  he  is  going  to 
put  the  most  seriously  ill  of  them  into  the  fire,  to  give  his  ashes  to  the 
others  to  drink,  and  that  then  they  shall  be  cured.  It  is  needless  to  say 
that  all  immediately  recover  their  health  in  a  great  measure. 

Rabelais,  in  the  twenty-fourth  chapter  of  the  third  book  of  Pantagruel, 
relates  that  he  and  some  of  his  friends  acted  in  his  youth  "the  moral 
comedy  of  him  who  had  espoused  and  married  a  dumb  wife.  .  .  .  The 
good  honest  man,  her  husband,  was  very  earnestly  urgent  to  have  the 
fillet  of  her  tongue  untied,  and  would  needs  have  her  speak  by  any  means. 
At  his  desire,  some  pains  were  taken  on  her,  and  pardy  by  the  industry 
of  the  physician,  other  part  by  the  expertness  of  the  surgeon,  the  ency- 
liglotte  which  she  had  under  her  tongue  being  cut,  she  spoke,  and  spoke 
again  ;  yea,  within  a  few  hours  she  spoke  so  loud,  so  much,  so  fiercely, 
and  so  long,  that  her  poor  husband  returned  to  the  same  physician  for  a 
receipt  to  make  her  hold  her  peace.  There  are,  quoth  the  physician, 
many  proper  remedies  in  our  art  to  make  dumb  women  speak,  but  there 
are  none  that  ever  I  could  learn  therein  to  make  them  silent.  The  only 
cure  which  I  have  found  out  is  their  husband's  deafness.  The  wretch  be- 
came within  a  few  weeks  thereafter,  by  virtue  of  some  drugs,  charms,  or 
enchantments,  which  the  physician  had  prescribed  unto  him,  so  deaf,  that 
he  could  not  have  heard  the  thundering  of  nineteen  hundred  cannons  at 
a  salvo.  His  wife,  perceiving  that  indeed  he  was  as  deaf  as  a  door  nail, 
and  that  her  scolding  was  but  in  vain,  sith  that  he  heard  her  not,  she  grew 
stark  mad.  Some  time  after  the  doctor  asked  for  his  fee  of  the  husband ; 
who  answered,  That  truly  he  was  deaf,  and  so  was  not  able  to  understand 
what  the  tenour  of  his  demand  might  be.  Whereupon  the  leech  be- 
dusted  him  with  a  little,  I  know  not  what,  sort  of  powder ;  which  rendered 
him  a  fool  immediately,  so  great  was  the  stultificating  virtue  of  that 
strange  kind  of  pulverized  dose.  Then  did  this  fool  of  a  husband,  and 
his  mad  wife,  join  together,  and  falling  on  the  doctor  and  the  surgeon,  did 
so  scratch,  bethwack,  and  bang  them,  that  they  were  left  half  dead  upon 
the  place,  so  furious  were  the  blows  which  they  received.  I  never  in  my 
lifetime  laughed  so  much,  as  at  the  acting  of  that  buffoonery.'' 

Menage  and  Brossette  mention  that  Moliere  intended  Sganarelle  for  a 
certain  wig-maker  of  his  time,  Didier  I'Amour,  whose  shop  was  under  the 
stairs  of  la  Sainte  Chapelle,  whose  first  wife  was  very  violent,  like  Martine, 
and  to  whom  Boileau,  later  on,  gave  a  place  in  the  Lutrin.  It  really 
seems  that  Sganarelles  may  be  found  in  every  country, — men  who,  with  a 
certain  amount  of  natural  mother-wit,  and  a  few  sesquipedalian  words, 
acquired  heaven  knows  where,  are  the  heroes  of  the  bar-parlour,  and  the 
admired  of  all  admirers  among  their  boon-companions.  Such  men  may 
possibly  love  their  wives,  but  they  box  their  ears ;  they  may  have  a  cer- 
tain feeling  for  their  children,  but,  instead  of  giving  them  bread,  they 
sqtiander  their  scanty  wages,  lazily  gained,  in  the  public-house,  caring 


252  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF. 

neither  for  the  day  nor  the  morrow,  never  thinking  of  the  future  or  the 
past,  and  deserving,  in  one  word,  the  reputation  of  "  real  good  fellows." 

It  has  been  well  said  by  Boileau,  that  "  in  the  smallest  farces  of  Mo- 
li^re,  there  are  some  admirable  touches  that  may  vainly  be  sought  in  the 
finest  pieces  of  other  comic  authors.''  The  Physician  in  spite  of  HiTnsclf 
is  a  proof  of  this.  It  is  written  in  a  most  unbounded  spirit  of  mirth,  the 
matrimonial  breezes  wafting  a  certain  amount  of  refreshing  coolness 
through  it  all.  The  way  in  which  Sganarelle  is  dubbed,  or  rather  drubbed 
a  doctor,  is  highly  amusing ;  and  the  cure  of  the  dumb  girl,  and  the  use 
which  she  makes  of  her  recovered  speech,  contains  a  philosophical  lesson 
which  may  be  sometimes  applied  to  the  way  in  which  nouveaux  riches 
spread  their  newly  acquired  wealth.  The  learned  and  anatomical  dis- 
quisitions between  Sganarelle  and  Geronte  are  also  very  entertaining,  as 
well  as  the  growth  of  greed  in  the  rusiic  physician. 

In  the  second  volume  of  the  Select  Comedies  of  M.  de  Moli^re,  Lon- 
don, 1732,  The  Physician  in  Spite  of  Himself  \s  dedicated  to  Dr.  Mead, 
under  the  title  of  Doctor  and  no  Doctor,  in  the  following  words  : 

Sir, — MoLiERK  having  sent  most  of  his  Performances  Patronless  into  the  World, 
his  Translators  have  determined  to  supply  this  his  only  Defect  by  prefixing  some 
favourite  Name  to  each  of  'em,  in  order  to  recommend  em  the  more  powerfully  to 
the  perusal  of  their  Countrymen.  None  can  have  a  stronger  Influence  in  this  re- 
spect than  that  of  Dr  Mead,  for  if  we  have  but  as  many  Readers  as  owe  to  him  being 
in  a  Capacity  of  reading  at  all,  our  Bookseller  will  have  no  cause  to  repent  of  his 
undertaking. — It  may,  by  some,  be  here  expected,  that  I  should  apologize  for  my 
Author,  as  having  in  this  and  several  other  of  his  Comedies  treated  Medicine  and 
its  Professors  with  a  severe  kind  of  Freedom  ;  but  this.  Sir,  to  one  of  Your  Discern- 
ment and  Politeness  would  be  highly  impertinent. 

As  'twas  perverted  Medicine  alone,  and  its  quack  Professors  that  were  the  sub- 
jects of  his  Ridicule,  Dr  Mead  c^i\  be  no  more  affected  by  it  than  a  true  Prophet 
by  the  Punishment  of  Imposture,  nor  be  displeas'd  with  a  Satire  he  could  not 
fear. 

You  are  too  well  acquainted.  Sir,  with  the  universal  History  of  Physick,  to  be 
ignorant  of  the  State  of  it  at  Paris  in  Moliire' s  time,  or  the  Characters  of  their 
Physicians.  All  they  employed  themselves  about,  was  searching  after  visionary 
Specificks,  and  trying  of  chemical  Tricks  ;  the  Cause  of  a  Disease  was  never  en- 
quir'd  into,  nor  the  Symptoms  of  it  regarded,  but  hypothetical  Jargon  and  random 
Prescription  serv'd  in  the  room.  This  made  Medicine  become  a  Pest,  instead  of  a 
Remedy,  on  which  account  you'll  readily  acknowledge  that  the  Chastisement  was 
just.  On  the  contrary.  Sir,  Your  Practice  was  founded  on  the  Rock  of  sound 
Learning,  and  Your  Success  secur'd  by  an  extensive  and  well-mark'd  Experience  ; 
by  which  means  You  have  established  the  Honour  of  the  Profession,  afe  become  a 

feneral  Blessing  to  the  Society  You  belong  to,  and  have   been  capable,  as  a  good 
'hysician,  of  doing  more  Service  in  Your  Generation  than  all  the  bad  ones  have 
done  Mischief. 

It  will  be  thought,  I  know,  by  the  World,  that  when  I'm  speaking  of  Dr  Mead, 
I  should  not  only  celebrate  him  as  an  excellent  Physician,  but  as  an  excellent  Man 
likewise,  and  an  accomplish'd  Gentleman  ;  but  these  Characters  are  necessary  to 
and  included  in  the  other.  To  be  a  good  Physician,  a  Man  must  possess  all  the 
Virtues  of  Humanity  and  Politeness,  he  must  be  Eyes  to  the  blind.  Feet  to  the 
lame,  and  Health  and  Refreshment  to  the  sick  and  needy  ;  he  must  be  a  fine  Schol- 
ar by  Education,  and  a  fine  Gentleman  by  being  obliged  to  converse  with  the  best 
Company  :  In  all  these  respects,  therefore.  You  are  certainly  as  eminent.  Sir,  as 
Vou  are  in  Your  Profession. 

That  Heaven  may  prolong  Your  Life  for  the  Benefit  of  Your  Fellow-creatures, 
PS  long  as  Life  can  be  a  Good,  and  that  at  last,  when  you  must  quit  this  mortal  Coil, 
You  may  do  it  with  that  Ease,  which  You  have  so  often  procur'd  for  others  in  those 
critical  Moments,  is  the  sincere  Prayer  of  all  that  ever  heard  of  Your  Name,  but  of 
none  more  sincerely  than  of, — Sir,  Your  most  obedient  humble  Servant, 

THE  TRANSLATOR. 

The  Physician  in  l^ite  of  Himself  has  been  often  imitated  by  English 


THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  253 

dramatists ;  first  by  Lacy  in  The  Dumb  Lady ;  or  the  Farrier  made  a 
Physician,  a  farce  in  five  acts,  acted  about  I672,  and  in  which  the  adapter 
played  probably  "  Drench,  the  farrier."  The  main  plot  is  taken  from 
Moli^re's  play,  and  the  catastrophe  from  Love  is  the  best  Doctor  (see  In- 
troductory Notice  to  Love  is  the  best  Doctor). 

Another  partial  adaptation  of  Moli^re's  play  is  by  Mrs.  Centlivre,  who. 
in  Love's  Contrivance,  acted  in  1703  at  Drury  Lane,  imitated  several  of 
the  French  author's  comedies  (see  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Forced 
Marriage,  Vol.  I). 

Henry  Fielding  has  also  nearly  literally  followed  Moli^re's  play,  and 
has  added  some  songs,  in  a  "  ballad  farce,"  called  The  Mock  Doctor ;  or 
the  Dumb  Lady  Cured,  acted  at  Drury  Lane  in  1732.  This  piece  was, 
and  has  remained,  a  great  favourite  on  the  English  stage. 

Another  imitation  of  Moli^re's  Physician  in  Spite  of  Himself ,  or  rather 
a  remodelling  of  Fielding's  translation,  is  George  Wood's  The  Irish  Doc- 
tor;  or  the  Dumb  Lady  cured,  first  performed  at  the  Queen's  Theatre, 
November  19th,  1844.  It  is  Fielding's  Mock  Doctor,  with  all  the  spirit 
evaporated.  Sganarelle  becomes  an  Irish  broom-maker,  Dennis  Murphy, 
and  G6ronte,  Sir  Ralph  Credulous. 

The  "  high-born  and  most  hopeful  prince,"  to  whom  Lacy  inscribed 
his  play,  was  the  eldest  of  the  three  natural  sons  of  Charles  II.  by  Bar- 
bara Villiers,  wife  of  Roger  Palmer,  Earl  of  Castlemaine,  better  known  as 
Duchess  of  Cleveland,  a  dignity  conferred  by  her  royal  keeper  in  testi- 
mony of  the  high  opinion  he  entertained  of  her  "personal"  virtues,' — at 
least  so  runs  the  preamble  of  the  patent  of  creation. 

At  the  date  of  the  play,  the  hopeful  prince  enjoyed  the  title  of  Earl  of 
Southampton,  "as,"  says  Collins,  the  Peerage  writer,  "  heir  of  his  mother, 
the  Duchess  of  Cleveland,"  that  being  her  second  title.  Upon  the  ist  of 
April  1673,  he  was  installed  a  Knight  of  the  Garter,  and  upon  the  loth  of 
September  1675  was  created  Duke  of  Southampton,  Earl  of  Chichester, 
and  Baron  of  Newberry,  with  remainder  to  the  heirs-male  of  his  body, 
whom  failing,  to  his  younger  brother  George,  Duke  of  Northumberland, 
Upon  the  death  of  his  mother,  at  her  house  of  Chiswick,  in  the  county  of 
Middlesex,  on  the  9th  October  1709,  the  title  of  Cleveland,  under  the 
limitations  in  the  patent,  devolved  on  her  eldest  son  Charles.  His  Grace 
married,  when  eighteen,  Mary,  heiress  of  Sir  Henry  Wood,  the  elder 
brother  of  Thomas,  Bishop  of  Litchfield  and  Coventry.  The  Duchess  died 
in  1680,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  By  her  he  had  no  issue. 
This  lady  seems  to  have  brought  him  a  very  handsome  fortune,  as  in  Mi- 
chaelmas term  1685  he  had  a  decree  in  Chancery  against  the  Bishop  for 
^30,000,  "  as  part  of  his  lady's  fortune." 

In  1694,  the  Duke  took  to  wife  Anne,  daughter  of  Sir  William  Pulteny 
of  Misterton,  in  the  county  of  Leicester,  by  whom  he  had  three  sons  and 
three  daughters.  He  died  on  the  9th  September  1730,  and  was  succeeded 
by  his  eldest  son  William,  who  died  without  issue  in  1774,  so  that  the 
titles  of  Cleveland  and  Southampton  became  extinct,  and  remained  so  for 
more  than  half  a  century,  when  the  Dukedom  of  Cleveland  was  revived 
in  the  person  of  the  Earl  of  Darlington,  the  heir  of  line  of  Lady  Grace 
Fitzroy,  the  second  daughter  of  Duke  Charles,  who  married  Henry  Vane, 
son  of  Lord  Barnard.  Her  eldest  sister  Barbara  died  unmarried;  and 
her  younger  sister,  Lady  Anne,  who  married  John  Paddey,  Esq.,  departed 
this  life  at  Waterford,  Herts,  on  the  23d  of  January  1769. 

1  Collins'  Peerage,  vol.  i.,  p.  56.  London,  1741.  8vo.  See  also  Introductory 
Notice  to  The  Priucess  0/  Elis,  and  Introductory  Notice  to  Love  is  the  best 
Doctor.  ' 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

G^RONTE,  father  to  Lucinde. 

Leandre,  Lucinde' s  lover. 

Sganarelle,  husband  to  Martinet 

M.  Robert,  Sganarelle'  s  neighbour, 

Lucas,  husband  to  Jacqueline. 

Valere,  Ger ante's  servant} 

Thibaut,  ■) 

\  peasants^ 
Perrin,  his  son,  J 

Lucinde,  Geronte' s  daughter. 

Martine,  Sganarelle' s  wife. 

Jacqueline,  nurse  at  Gironte^s,  and  Lucas'  wife. 


».  This  part  was<jplayed  by  Moli^re  himself.  In  the  inventory  of  his 
dresses,  given  by  M.  E.  Souli6,  and  taken  after  his  death,  we  find,  "  The 
clothes  for  the  representation  of  T/ie  Physician  in  spite  of  Himself,  con- 
sisting of  a  doublet,  breeches,  collar,  girdle,  ruff,  woollen  stockings,  and 
pouch,  all  of  yellow  serge,  trimmed  with  green  radon  ;^  a  satin  dress  with 
breeches  of  short  nap,  flowered  velvet."  • 

*  The  original  has  domestique,  which  in  the  seventeenth  century  meant 
a  steward,  a  secretary,  a  trustworthy  man. 

*  I  have  not  been  able  to  find  this  word  in  any  dictionary. 


THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF. 

(ZwE  M&DMCIN  MALGR&  LUI.) 


ACT  I. 

TTie  Scene  represents  a  Forest. 

Scene  I. — Sganarelle,  Martine  (appearing  on  the  stage, 
quarrelling). 

Scan.  No  ;  I  tell  you  that  I  will  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,  and  that  it  is  for  me  to  speak,  and  to  be  master. 

Mart.  And  I  tell  you  that  I  will  have  you  to  live  as  I 
like,  and  that  I  am  not  married  to  you  to  put  up  with 
your  vagaries. 

Scan.  Oh  !  what  a  nuisance  it  is  to  have  a  wife  !  and 
Aristotle  is  perfectly  right  in  saying  that  a  woman  is  worse 
than  a  demon.* 

Mart.  Look  at  Master  Clever,  with  his  silly  Aristotle ! 

Sgan,  Yes,  Master  Clever.  Find  me  another  faggot- 
binder  who  can  argue  upon  things  as  I  can,  who  has  served 
a  famous  physician  for  six  years,  and  who,  when  only  a 
boy,  had  his  rudiments  at  his  fingers'  ends !'' 

*  It  would  be  difficult  to  give  the  passage  in  Aristotle,  where  such  a 
thing  is  stated. 

5  The  rudiments  stand  here  for  a  little  book  containing  the  elements  of 
the  Latin  tongue.  Compare  Shakespeare  in  As  You  Like  It  (Act.  v., 
Scene  4),  who  says —  "  This  boy  is  forest-born, 

And  has  been  tutored  in  the  rudiments 
Of  many  desperate  studies." 
VOL.  II.  R  257 


258  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  i. 

Mart.  Plague  on  the  arrant  fool.' 

Scan.  Plague  on  the  slut ! 

Mart.  Cursed  be  the  hour  and  the  day  when  I  took  it 
into  my  head  to  say  yes. 

Scan.  Cursed  be  the  cuckold  of  a  notary  that  made  me 
sign  my  own  ruination. 

Mart.  Certainly  it  well  becomes  you  to  complain  on 
that  score.  Ought  you  not  rather  to  thank  Heaven  every 
minute  of  the  day  that  you  have  me  for  a  wife?  and  did 
you  deserve  to  marry  a  woman  like  me  ? 

Scan.  It  is  true  you  did  me  too  much  honour,  and  I 
had  great  occasion  to  be  satisfied  with  my  wedding-night. 
Zounds  !  do  not  make  me  open  my  mouth  too  wide :  I 
might  say  certain  things  .    .    . 

Mart.  What?     What  could  you  say? 

Scan.  Enough ;  let  us  drop  the  subject.  It  is  enough 
that  we  know  what  we  know,  and  that  you  were  very  glad 
to  meet  with  me. 

Mart.  What  do  you  call  very  glad  to  meet  with  you? 
A  fellow  who  will  drive  me  to  the  hospital — a  debauched, 
deceitful  wretch,  who  gobbles  up  every  farthing  I  have 
got! 

Scan.  That  is  a  lie :  for  I  drink  part  of  it. 

Mart.  Who  sells  piecemeal  every  stick  of  furniture  in 
the  house  ! 

Scan.  That  is  living  upon  one's  means. 

Mart.  Who  has  taken  the  very  bed  from  under  me  ! 

Scan.  You  will  get  up  all  the  earlier. 

Mart.  In  short,  who  does  not  leave  me  a  stick  in  the 
whole  house. 

Scan.  There  will  be  less  trouble  in  moving. 

Mart.  And  who  from  morning  to  night  does  nothing 
but  gamble  and  drink  ! 

Scan.  That  is  done  in  order  not  to  get  in  the  dumps. 

Mart.  And  what  am  I  to  do  all  the  while  with  my 
family  ? 

Scan.  Whatever  you  like. 

Mart.  I  have  got  four  poor  children  on  my  hands. 

Scan.  Put  them  down. 

•The  original  has  foufieffe.    See  Vol.  I.,  page  486,  note  14. 


SCKNKH.]  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  259 

Mart.  Who  keep  asking  me  every  moment  for  bread. 

Scan.  Whip  them.  When  I  have  had  enough  to  eat  and 
to  drink,  every  one  in  the  house  ought  to  be  satisfied. 

Mart.  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  you  sot,  that  things 
can  always  go  on  so? 

Scan.  Wife,  let  us  proceed  gently,  if  you  please. 

Mart.  That  I  am  to  bear  forever  with  your  insolence 
and  your  debauchery? 

Sgan.  Do  not  let  us  get  into  a  passion,  wife. 

Mart.  And  that  I  do  not  know  the  way  to  bring  you 
back  to  your  duty? 

Sgan.  Wife,  you  know  that  I  am  not  very  patient,  and 
that  my  arm  is  somewhat  heavy. 

Mart.  I  laugh  at  your  threats. 

Sgan.  My  sweet  wife,  my  pet,  your  skin  is  itching  as 
usual. 

Mart.  I  will  let  you  see  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  you. 

Sgan.  My  dearest  rib,  you  have  set  your  heart  upon  a 
thrashing.' 

Mart.  Do  you  think  that  I  am  frightened  at  your  talk? 

Sgan.   Sweet  object  of  my  affections,  I  shall  box  your 
ears  for  you. 

Mart.  Sot  that  you  are ! 

Sgan.  I  shall  thrash  you. 

Mart.  Walking  wine-cask ! 

Sgan.  I  shall  pummel  you. 

Mart.  Infamous  wretch ! 

Sgan.  I  shall  curry  your  skin  for  you. 

Mart.  Wretch  !  villain  !  deceiver !  cur !  scoundrel !  gal- 
lows-bird !  churl !  rogue  !  scamp  !  thief !    .    .    . 

Sgan.  You  will  have  it,  will  you? 

(  Takes  a  stick  and  beats  her. 

Mart,  {shrieking).     Help !  help  !  help  !  help  ! 

Sgan.  That  is  the  real  way  of  quieting  you. 

Scene  II. — M.  Robert,  Sganarelle,  Martine. 
M.  Rob.  HuUoa,  hulloa,  hulloa  !     Fie  !     What  is  this  ? 

''  The  original  has  Vous  avez  envie  de  me  derober  quelque  chose,  You 
wish  to  rob  me  of  something, — meaning,  of  course,  ''  of  a  box  on  the 
ear."  In  English  we  say  also  familiarly  of  any  one  who  receives  some- 
thing which  he  richly  deserves  :  He  has  not  stolen  that. 


26o  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  [acti. 

What  a  disgraceful  thing  !  Plague  take  the  scamp  to  beat 
his  wife  so. 

Mart.  {Her  arms  akimbo,  speaks  to  M.  Robert,  and 
makes  him  draw  back;  at  last  she  gives  him  a  slap  on  the 
face).     And  I  like  him  to  beat  me,  I  do. 

M.  Rob.   If  that  is  the  case,  I  consent  with  all  my  heart. 

Mart.  What  are  you  interfering  with  ? 

M.  Rob.  I  am  wrong. 

Mart.  Is  it  any  of  your  business? 

M.  Rob.  You  are  right. 

Mart.  Just  look  at  this  jackanapes,  who  wishes  to  hin- 
der husbands  from  beating  their  wives  ! 

M.  Rob.  I  apologize. 

Mart.  What  have  you  got  to  say  to  it  ? 

M.  Rob.  Nothing. 

Mart.  Is  it  for  you  to  poke  your  nose  into  it? 

M.  Rob.  No. 

Mart.  Mind  your  own  business. 

M.  Rob.  I  shall  not  say  another  word. 

Mart.  It  pleases  me  to  be  beaten. 

M.  Rob.  Agreed. 

Mart.  It  does  not  hurt  you. 

M.  Rob.  That  is  true. 

Mart.  And  you  are  an  ass  to  interfere  with  what  does 
not  concern  you. 

M.  Rob.  Neighbour,  I  ask  your  pardon  with  all  my 
heart.  Go  on,  thrash  and  beat  your  wife  as  much  as  you 
like;  I  shall  help  you,  if  you  wish  it.  {He  goes  towards 
Sganarelle,  who  also  speaks  to  him,  tnakes  him  draw  back, 
beats  him  with  the  stick  he  has  been  using,  and  puts  him  to 
flight). 

Scan.  I  do  not  wish  it. 

M.  Rob.  Ah  !  that  is  a  different  thing. 

Scan.  I  will  beat  her  if  I  like ;  and  I  will  not  beat  her 
if  I  do  not  like. 

M.  Rob.  Very  good. 

Sgan.  She  is  my  wife,  and  not  yours. 

M.  Rob.  Undoubtedly. 

Scan.  It  is  not  for  you  to  order  me  about. 

M.  Rob.  Just  so. 

Scan.  I  do  not  want  your  help. 


SCENE  IV.]         THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  261 

M.  Rob.  Exactly  so. 

Sgan.  And  it  is  like  your  impertinence  to  meddle  with 
other  people's  business.  Remember  that  Cicero  says  that 
between  the  tree  and  the  finger  you  should  not  put  the 
bark.  *  {He  drives  him  away,  then  comes  back  to  his  wife, 
and  says  to  her,  squeezing  her  hand). 

Scene  III. — Sganarelle,  Martine. 

Sgan.  Come,  let  us  make  it  up.     Shake  hands. 

Mart.  Yes,  after  having  beaten  me  thus  ! 

Sgan.   Never  mind  that.     Shake  hands. 

Mart.  I  will  not. 

Sgan.  Eh? 

Mart.  No. 

Sgan.    Come,  wife ! 

Mart.  I  shall  not. 

Sgan.  Come,  I  tell  you. 

Mart.  I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 

Sgan.   Come,  come,  come. 

Mart.  No  ;  I  will  Ije  angry. 

Sgan.  Bah !  it  is  a  trifle.     Do. 

Mart.  Leave  me  alone. 

Sgan.  Shake  hands,  I  tell  you. 

Mart.  You  have  treated  me  too  ill. 

Sgan.  Well !  I  beg  your  pardon ;  put  your  hand  there. 

Mart.  I  forgive  you;  (aside,  softly'),  but  I  shall  make 
you  pay  for  it. 

Sgan.  You  are  silly  to  take  notice  of  it;  these  are 
trifles  that  are  necessary  now  and  then  to  keep  up  good 
feeling ;  and  five  or  six  strokes  of  a  cudgel  between  peo- 
ple who  love  each  other,  only  brighten  the  affections. 
There  now !  I  am  going  to  the  wood,  and  I  promise  you 
that  you  shall  have  more  than  a  hundred  faggots  to-day. 

Scene  IV. — Martine,  alone. 

Go,  my  lad,  whatever  look  I  may  put  on,  I  shall  not 
forget  to  pay  you  out ;  and  I  am  dying  to  hit  upon  some- 

8  Sganarelle  quotes  the  proverb  wrong,  which  says  that  between  the  tree 
and  the  bark  one  ought  not  to  put  one's  finger,  which  means  figuratively, 
"  Never  interfere  in  things  which  do  not  concern  you."  Of  course  Cicero 
says  nothing  of  the  kind. 


262  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  i. 

thing  to  punish  you  for  the  blows  you  gave  me.  I  know 
well  enough  that  a  wife  has  always  the  means  of  being 
revenged  upon  her  husband ;  but  that  is  too  delicate  a 
punishment  for  my  gallows-bird ;  I  want  a  revenge  that 
shall  strike  home  a  little  more,  or  it  will  not  be  satisfaction 
for  the  insult  which  I  have  received. 

Scene  V. — Val^re,  Lucas,  Martine. 

Luc.  (7b  Valere,  without  seeing  Martine).  I'facks  we 
have  undertaken  a  curious  errand  ;  and  I  do  not  know, 
for  my  part,  what  we  shall  get  by  it.' 

Val.  (7<7  Lucas,  without  seeing  Martine').  What  is  the 
use  of  grumbling,  good  foster-father  ?  we  are  bound  to  do 
as  our  master  tells  us ;  and,  besides,  we  have  both  of  us 
some  interest  in  the  health  of  his  daughter,  our  mistress ; 
for  her  marriage,  which  is  put  off  through  her  illness,  will 
no  doubt  bring  us  in  something.  Horace,  who  is  gener- 
ous, is  the  most  likely  to  succeed  among  her  suitors  ;  and 
although  she  has  shown  some  inclination  for  a  certain 
Leandre,  you  know  well  enough  that  her  father  would 
never  consent  to  receive  him  for  his  son-in-law. 

Mart.  {^Musing  on  one  side,  thinking  herself  alone).  Can 
I  not  find  out  some  way  of  revenging  myself? 

Luc.  {To  Valere).  But  what  an  idea  has  he  taken  into 
his  head,  since  the  doctors  are  quite  at  a  loss.'" 

Val.  {To  Lucas).  You  may  sometimes  find  by  dint  of 
seeking,  what  cannot  be  found  at  once ;  and  often  in  the 
most  unlikely  spots  you  may  .    .    . 

Mart.  {^Thinking  herself  always  alone).  Yes;  I  must 
pay  him  out,  no  matter  at  what  cost.  Those  cudgel  blows 
lie  heavy  on  my  stomach  ;  I  cannot  digest  them ;  and  .  .  . 
{She  is  saying  all  this  musingly,  and  as  she  moves,  she  comes 
in  contact  with  the  two  men).  Ah,  gentlemen,  I  beg  your 
pardon,  I  did  not  notice  you,  and  was  puzzling  my  brain 
about  something  that  perplexes  me. 

®  Lucas  sjjeaks  in  a  provincial  dialect,  which  I  think  it  unnecessary 
to  endeavour  to  imitate  in  English. 

^°  The  original  has  puisque  les  medecins  y  avont  tous  pardu  leur  latin 
"  since  the  doctors  have  lost  all  their  Latin  over  it."  I  suppose  in  allusion 
to  the  latinized  gibberish  which  the  doctors  in  Moli^re's  time  used  to 
employ  in  their  consultations. 


SCENE  v.]  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  263 

Val.  Every  one  has  his  troubles  in  this  world,  and  we 
also  are  looking  for  something  that  we  should  be  very  glad 
to  find. 

Mart.  Is  it  something  in  which  I  can  assist  you  ? 
Val.  Perhaps.  We  are  endeavouring  to  meet  with 
some  clever  man,  some  special  physician,  who  could  give 
some  relief  to  our  master's  daughter,  seized  with  an  illness 
which  has  at  once  deprived  her  of  the  use  of  her  tongue. 
Several  physicians  have  already  exhausted  all  their  know- 
ledge on  her  behalf;  but  sometimes  one  may  find  people 
with  wonderful  secrets,  and  certain  peculiar  remedies,  who 
very  often  succeed  where  others  have  failed  :  and  that  is 
the  sort  of  man  we  are  looking  for. 

Mart.  {Softly  and  aside).  Ah  !  This  is  an  inspiration 
from  Heaven  to  revenge  myself  on  my  rascal.  {Aloud). 
You  could  never  have  addressed  yourselves  to  any  one 
more  able  to  find  what  you  want ;  and  we  have  a  man 
here,  the  most  wonderful  fellow  in  tlae  world  for  desperate 
maladies. 

Val.  Ah  !  for  mercy's  sake,  where  can  we  meet  with 
him  ? 

Mart.  You  will  find  him  just  now  in  that  little  spot 
yonder,  where  he  is  amusing  himself  in  cutting  wood. 

Luc.  A  doctor  who  cuts  wood  ! 

Val.  Who  is  amusing  himself  in  gathering  some  sim- 
ples, you  mean  to  say  ? 

Mart.  No  ;  he  is  a  strange  fellow  who  takes  a  delight 
in  this ;  a  fantastic,  eccentric,  whimsical  man,  whom  you 
would  never  take  to  be  what  he  really  is.  He  goes  about 
dressed  in  a  most  extraordinary  fashion,  pretends  some- 
times to  be  very  ignorant,  keeps  his  knowledge  to  himself, 
and  dislikes  nothing  so  much  every  day  as  using  the  mar- 
vellous talents  which  God  has  given  him  for  the  healing 
art. 

Val.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  that  all  these  great  men 
have  always  some  whim,  some  slight  grain  of  madness 
mixed  with  their  learning. 

Mart.  The  madness  of  this  man  is  greater  than  can  be 
imagined,  for  sometimes  he  has  to  be  beaten  before  he 
will  own  his  ability ;  and  I  warn  you  beforehand  that  you 
will  not  succeed,  that  he  will  never  own  that  he  is  a  phy- 


264  THE  PHYSICIAX   IN   SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  [act  i. 

sician,  unless  you  take  each  a  stick,  and  compel  him,  by 
dint  of  blows,  to  admit  at  last  what  he  will  conceal  at 
first.     It  is  thus  that  we  act  when  we  have  need  of  him. 

Val.  What  a  strange  delusion  ! 

Mart.  That  is  true ;  but,  after  that,  you  shall  see  that 
he  works  wonders. 

Val.  What  is  his  name? 

Mart.  His  name  is  Sganarelle.  But  it  is  very  easy  to 
recognise  him.  He  is  a  man  with  a  large  black  beard, 
and  who  wears  a  ruff,  and  a  yellow  and  green  coat. 

Luc.  A  yellow  and  green  coat !  He  is  then  a  parrot- 
doctor  ? 

Val.  But  is  it  really  true  that  he  is  as  clever  as  you  say  ? 

Mart.  As  clever.  He  is  a  man  who  works  miracles. 
About  six  months  ago,  a  woman  was  given  up  by  all  the 
other  physicians;  she  was  considered  dead  at  least  six 
hours,  and  they  were  going  to  bury  her,  when  they 
dragged  by  force  the  man  we  are  speaking  of  to  her  bed- 
side. Having  seen  her,  he  poured  a  small  drop  of  some- 
thing into  her  mouth  ;  and  at  that  very  instant  she  rose 
from  her  bed,  and  began  immediately  to  walk  in  her 
room  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Luc.  Hah ! 

Val.  It  must  have  been  a  drop  of  liquid  gold." 

Mart.  Possibly  so.  Not  more  than  three  weeks  ago, 
a  young  child,  twelve  years  old,  fell  from  the  top  of  the 
belfry,  and  smashed  his  head,  arms,  and  legs  on  the 
stones.  No  sooner  took  they  our  man  to  it,  than  he 
rubbed  the  whole  body  with  a  certain  ointment,  which  he 
knows  how  to  prepare ;  and  the  child  immediately  rose  on 
its  legs,  and  ran  away  to  play  at  chuck-farthing. 

Luc.  Hah! 

Val.  This  man  must  have  the  universal  heal-all." 

Mart.  Who  doubts  it  ? 

Luc.  Odds-bobs  !  that  is  the  very  man  we  want.  Let 
us  go  quickly  and  fetch  him. 


^^  The  liquid  gold  {aurum  potabile)  was  long  thought  to  be  a  most 
wonderful  remedy,  and  was  in  use  even  during  the  last  century. 

1*  Liquid  gold  was  formerly  thought  to  cure  all  diseases,  hence  the 
name  of  "  universal  heal-alL" 


SCKNBVI.]  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  265 

Val.  We  thank  you  for  the  service  you  have  rendered 
us. 

Mart.  But  do  not  fail  to  remember  the  warning  I  have 
given  you. 

Luc.  Hey !  Zooks  !  leave  it  to  us.  If  he  wants  noth- 
ing but  a  thrashing,  we  will  gain  our  point. ^* 

Val.  {^To  Lucas).  We  are  very  glad  to  have  met  with 
this  woman ;  and  I  conceive  the  best  hopes  in  the  world 
from  it. 

Scene  VI. — Sganarelle,  Valere,  Lucas. 
Scan.  {Singing  behind  the  Scene).    La,  la,  la  .    .    . 
Val.  I  hear  some  one  singing  and  cutting  wood. 
Sgan.  {Coming  on,  with  a  bottle  in  his  hand,  without 
perceiving  Valere  or  Lucas).     La,  la,   la.  .    .    .  Really  I 
have  done  enough  to  deserve  a  drink.    Let  us  take  a  little 
breath.     {He  drinks).    This  wood  is  as  salt  as  the  very 
devil."  {Sings). 

How  sweet  to  hear, 
My  pretty  flask, 
How  sweet  to  hear. 
Your  little  gull,  gull ! 
No  fate  with  mine  could  vie. 
If  never  you  ran  dry. 
Oh  !  darling  little  flask. 
But  constantly  7vere  full .'"^^ 

1'  In  the  original  la  vache  est  h  nous,  the  cow  is  ours. 

^*  Meaning  that  he  wants  something  to  drink. 

15  Tradition  mentions  that  the  President  Rose,  a  few  days  after  the  first 
representation  of  The  Physician  in  spite  of  himself,  met  Moli^re  at  the 
Duke  de  Montausier,  and  accused  the  dramatist,  before  a  numerous  com- 
pany, of  having  translated  Sganarelle's  couplet  from  the  Latin,  which  was 
itself  borrowed  from  the  Greek.  Moh4re  denied  the  fact;  and  to 
his  great  surprise,  the  President  recited  the  following  verses,  which 
astounded  Moli^re,  and  which  were  afterwards  admitted  by  Rose  to  be 
a  translation  from  the  playwright's  original,  which  we  give  as  well : — 

Qu'ils  sont  doux,  Quam  dulces, 

Bouteille  jolie,  Amphora  amoena, 

Qu'ils  sont  doux,  Quam  dulces, 

Vos  petits  glougloux  !  Sunt  tuae  voces  ! 

Mais  mon  sort  ferait  bien  des  jaloux,     Dura  fundis  merum  in  calices, 

Si  vous  ^tiez  toujours  remplie,  Utinam  semper  esses  plena! 

Ah !  bouteille,  ma  mie.  Ah !  Ah !  cara  mea  lagena, 

Pourquoi  vous  videz-vous  ?  Vacua  cur  jaces  ? 


266  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  i. 

Come !  Zounds !  we  must  take  care  not  to  get  the 
blues. 

Val.   {Softly  to  Lucas).    This  is  the  very  man. 

Luc.  {Softly  to  Valere).  I  think  you  are  right,  and 
that  we  have  just  hit  upon  him. 

Val.  Let  us  look  a  little  closer. 

Scan.  {Hugging  the  bottle).  Ah !  you  little  rogue  !  I 
love  you,  my  pretty  dear !  {He  sings  j  but  perceiving  Lucas 
and  Valere,  who  are  examining  him,  he  lowers  his  voice. 

No  fate  .    .    .  with  mine  .    .    .  could .    .    .  vie. 
Is  .    .    . 

(^Seeing  that  they  examine  him  more  closely).  Whom  the 
deuce  do  these  people  want  ? 

Val.  {To  Lucas).     It  is  surely  he. 

Luc.  {To  Valere).  There  he  is,  exactly  as  he  has  been 
described  to  us. 

Scan.  {Aside).  {At  this  point  he  puts  down  his  bottle ; 
and  Valere  stooping  down  to  bow  to  him,  he  thinks  that  it  is 
in  order  to  snatch  it  away,  and  puts  it  on  the  other  side. 
As  Lucas  is  doing  the  same  thing  as  Valere,  Sganarelle 
takes  it  up  again,  and  hugs  it  to  his  breast,  with  various 
grimaces  which  make  a  great  deal  of  by-play).  They  are 
consulting  each  other,  while  looking  at  me.  What  can  be 
their  intentions ! 

Val.  Sir,  is  not  your  name  Sganarelle  ? 

Scan.  Hey!    What! 

Val.  I  ask  you  if  your  name  is  not  Sganarelle. 

Scan.  ( Turning  first  to  Valere,  then  to  Lucas).  Yes, 
and  no.     It  depends  on  what  you  want  with  him. 

Val.  We  want  nothing  with  him,  but  to  offer  him  our 
utmost  civilities. 

Scan.  In  that  case  my  name  is  Sganarelle. 

Val.  We  are  delighted  to  see  you,  Sir.  We  have  been 
recommended  to  you  for  what  we  are  in  search  of;  and 
we  have  come  to  implore  your  help,  of  which  we  are  in 
want. 

Scan.  If  it  be  anything,  gentlemen,  that  belongs  to  my 
little  trade,  I  am  quite  ready  to  oblige  you. 

Val.  You  are  too  kind  to  us,  Sir.  But  put  your  hat 
on.  Sir,  if  you  please ;  the  sun  might  hurt  you. 


SCENE vi]  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE   OE   HIMSELF.  267 

Luc.  Pray,  Sir,  put  it  on. 

Scan.  (Aside).  What  a  deal  of  ceremony  these  people 
use.     {He puts  his  hat  on). 

Val.  You  must  not  think  it  strange,  Sir,  that  we  have 
addressed  ourselves  to  you.  Clever  people  are  always 
much  sought  after,  and  we  have  been  informed  of  your 
capacity. 

Scan.  It  is  true,  gentlemen,  that  I  am  the  best  hand  in 
the  world  at  making  faggots. 

Val.  Oh  !  Sir  .    .    . 

Scan.  I  spare  no  pains,  and  make  them  in  a  fashion 
that  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired. 

Val.  That  is  not  the  question  we  have  come  about.  Sir. 

Scan.  But  I  charge  a  hundred  and  ten  sous  the  hun- 
dred. 

Val.  Let  us  not  speak  about  that,  if  you  please. 

Sgan.  I  pledge  you  my  word  that  I  could  not  sell  them 
for  less. 

Val.  We  know  what  is  what,  Sir. 

Sgan.  If  you  know  what  is  what,  you  know  that  I 
charge  that  price. 

Val.  This  is  a  joke.  Sir,  but  .    .    . 

Sgan.  It  is  no  joke  at  all,  I  cannot  bate  a  farthing. 

Val.   Let  us  talk  differently,  please. 

Sgan.  You  may  find  some  elsewhere  for  less ;  there  be 
faggots  and  faggots ;  but  for  those  which  I  make  .    .    . 

Val.  Let  us  change  the  conversation,  pray.  Sir. 

Sgan.  I  take  my  oath  that  you  shall  not  have  them  for 
less,  not  a  fraction. 

Val.  Fie  !  Fie ! 

Sgan.  No,  upon  my  word,  you  shall  have  to  pay  that 
price.  I  am  speaking  frankly,  and  I  am  not  the  man  to 
overcharge. 

Val.  Ought  a  gentleman  like  you,  Sir,  to  amuse  him- 
self with  those  clumsy  pretences,  to  lower  himself  to  talk 
thus?  Ought  so  learned  a  man,  such  a  famous  physician 
as  you  are,  to  wish  to  disguise  himself  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  and  keep  buried  his  great  talents  ? 

Sgan.  (Aside).     He  is  mad. 

Val.  Pray,  Sir,  do  not  dissemble  with  us. 

Sgan.  What  do  you  mean  ? 


268  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  [act  i. 

Luc.  All  this  beating  about  the  bush  is  useless.  We 
know  what  we  know. 

Scan.  What  do  you  know?  What  do  you  want  with 
me  ?     For  whom  do  you  take  me  ? 

Val.  For  what  you  are,  a  great  physician. 

Scan.  Physician  yourself;  I  am  not  one,  and  I  have 
never  been  one. 

Val.  {Aside).  Now  the  fit  is  on  him.  {Aloud).  Sir, 
do  not  deny  things  any  longer,  and  do  not,  if  you  please, 
make  us  have  recourse  to  unpleasant  extremities. 

Scan.  Have  recourse  to  what  ? 

Val.  To  certain  things  that  we  should  be  sorry  for. 

Scan.  Zounds!  Have  recourse  to  whatever  you  like. 
I  am  not  a  physician,  and  do  not  understand  what  you 
mean. 

Val.  {Aside).  Well,  I  perceive  that  we  shall  have  to 
apply  the  remedy.  {Aloud).  Once  more,  Sir,  I  pray  you 
to  confess  what  you  are. 

Luc.  Odds  bobs,  do  not  talk  any  more  nonsense ;  and 
confess  plainly  that  you  are  a  physician. 

Scan.    {Aside).     I  am  getting  in  a  rage. 

Val.  What  is  the  good  of  denying  what  all  the  world 
knows  ? 

Luc.  Why  all  these  funny  falsehoods  ?  What  is  the 
good  of  it  ? 

Scan.  One  word  is  as  good  as  a  thousand,  gentlemen. 
I  tell  you  that  I  am  not  a  physician. 

Val.   You  are  not  a  physician  ? 

Scan.  No. 

Luc.   You  are  not  a  physician  ? 

Scan.   No,  I  tell  you. 

Val.  Since  you  will  have  it  so,  we  must  make  np  our 
minds  to  do  it.     (  They  each  take  a  stick,  and  thrash  him). 

Sgan.  Hold  !  hold  !  hold,  gentlemen  !  I  will  be  any- 
thing you  like. 

Val.  Why,  Sir,  do  you  oblige  us  to  use  this  violence  ? 

Luc.  Why  do  you  make  us  take  the  trouble  of  giving 
you  a  beating  ? 

Val.  I  assure  you  that  I  regret  it  with  all  my  heart. 

Luc.  Upon  my  word  I  am  sorry  for  it  too. 

Sgan.  What  the  devil  does  it  all  mean,  gentlemen  ? 


SCENB  VI.]         THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE  OF   HIMSELT".  269 

For  pity's  sake,  is  it  a  joke,  or  are  you  both  gone  out  of 
your  minds,  to  wish  to  make  me  out  a  physician? 

Val.  What !  you  do  not  give  in  yet,  and  you  still  deny 
being  a  physician  ? 

Scan.  The  devil  take  me  if  I  am  one  ! 

Luc.   Are  you  not  a  physician  ? 

Sgan.  No,  plague  choke  me  !  {They  begin  to  thrash 
him  again).  Hold  !  hold  !  Well,  gentlemen,  yes,  since 
you  will  have  it  so,  I  am  a  physician,  I  am  a  physician — 
an  apothecary  into  the  bargain,  if  you  like.  I  prefer 
saying  yes  to  everything  to  being  knocked  about  so. 

Val.  Ah  !  that  is  right,  Sir ;  I  am  delighted  to  see  you 
so  reasonable. 

Luc.  It  does  my  heart  good  to  hear  you  speak  in  this 
way. 

Val.  I  beg  your  pardon  with  all  my  heart. 

Luc.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me  for  the  liberty  I  have 
taken. 

Sgan.  (Aside).  Bless  my  soul !  Am  I  perhaps  myself 
mistaken,  and  have  I  become  a  physician  without  being 
aware  of  it  ? 

Val.  You  shall  not  regret,  Sir,  having  shown  us  what 
you  are ;  and  you  shall  certainly  be  satisfied. 

Sgan.  But,  tell  me,  gentlemen,  may  you  not  be  your- 
selves mistaken  ?  Is  it  quite  certain  that  I  am  a  physi- 
cian ? 

Luc.  Yes,  upon  my  word  ! 

Sgan.  Really  and  truly. 

Val.  Undoubtedly. 

Sgan.  The  devil  take  me  if  I  knew  it ! 

Val.  Nonsense  !  You  are  the  cleverest  physician  in  the 
world. 

Sgan.  Ha,  ha ! 

Luc.  A  physician  who  has  cured  I  do  not  know  how 
many  complaints. 

Sgan.  The  dickens  I  have  ! 

Val.  a  woman  was  thought  dead  for  six  hours  j  she 
was  ready  to  be  buried  when  you,  with  a  drop  of  some- 
thing, brought  her  to  again,  and  made  her  walk  at  once 
about  the  room. 

Sgan.  The  deuce  I  did  ! 


VJO  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  f act  ii. 

Luc.  A  child  of  twelve  fell  from  the  top  of  the  belfry, 
by  which  he  had  his  head,  his  legs,  and  his  arms  smashed; 
and  you,  with  I  do  not  know  what  ointment,  made  him 
immediately  get  up  on  his  feet,  and  off  he  ran  to  play 
chuck-farthing. 

Scan.  The  devil  I  did  ! 

Val.  In  short,  Sir,  you  will  be  satisfied  with  us,  and 
you  shall  earn  whatever  you  like,  if  you  allow  us  to  take 
you  where  we  intend. 

Scan.   I  shall  earn  whatever  I  like  ?  ^ 

Val.  Yes. 

Scan.  In  that  case  I  am  a  physician  :  there  is  no  doubt 
of  it.  I  had  forgotten  it ;  but  I  recollect  it  now.  What 
is  the  matter  ?     Where  am  I  to  go  ? 

Val.  We  will  conduct  you.  The  matter  is  to  see  a  girl 
who  has  lost  her  speech. 

Scan.   Indeed  !   I  have  not  found  it. 

Val.  {Sofily  to  Lucas).  How  he  loves  his  joke!  {To 
Sganarelle).     Come  along.  Sir! 

Scan,  Without  a  physician's  gown  ! 

Val.  We  will  get  one. 

Scan.  (^Presenting  his  dottle  to  Valere).  You  carry  this  : 
I  put  my  juleps  in  there  {Turnifig  raund  to  Lucas  and  spit- 
ting on  the  ground).  And  you,  stamp  on  this,  by  order  of 
the  physician. 

Luc.  Odds  sniggers  !  this  is  a  physician  I  like.  I  think 
he  will  do,  for  he  is  a  comical  fellow. 


ACT  IL 
(^The  scene  represents  a  room  in  Geronte^s  house.') 
Scene  I. — Geronte,  Valere,  Lucas,  Jacqueline. 

Val.  Yes,  sir,  I  think  you  will  be  satisfied ;  we  have 
brought  the  greatest  physician  in  the  world  with  us. 

Luc.  Oh!  Zooks!  this  one  beats  everything;  all  the 
others  are  not  worthy  to  hold  the  candle  to  him.^® 

1*  The  original  has  tous  les  autres  ne  sont  pas  daignes  de  li  dichatisser 
ses  souliis,  all  the  others  are  not  worthy  to  take  off  his  shoes. 


SCENE  n.]  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  27 1 

Val.  He  is  a  man  who  has  performed  some  marvellous 
cures. 

Luc.  Who  has  put  dead  people  on  their  legs  again. 

Val.  He  is  somewhat  whimsical,  as  I  have  told  you ; 
and  at  times  there  are  moments  when  his  senses  wander, 
and  he  does  not  seem  what  he  really  is. 

Luc.  Yes,  he  loves  a  joke,  and  one  would  say  some- 
times that  he  has  got  a  tile  loose  somewhere." 

Val.  But  in  reality,  it  is  all  learning  this;  and  very 
often  he  says  things  quite  beyond  any  one's  comprehen-i 
sion. 

Luc.  When  he  sets  about  it,  he  talks  as  finely  as  if  he 
were  reading  a  book. 

Val.  He  has  already  a  great  reputation  hereabout,  and 
everybody  comes  to  consult  him. 

Ger.  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  him ;  send  him  to  me 
quickly. 

Val.  I  am  going  to  fetch  him. 

Scene  IL — Geronte,  Jacqueline,  Lucas. 

Jacq.  Upon  my  word,  Sir,  this  one  will  do  just  the  same 
as  all  the  rest.^^  I  think  it  will  be  six  of  the  one  and  half- 
a-dozen  of  the  others;  and  the  best  medicine  to  give  to 
your  daughter  would,  in  my  opinion,  be  a  handsome  strap- 
ping husband,  for  whom  she  could  have  some  love.^* 

Ger.  Lord  bless  my  soul,  nurse  dear,  you  are  meddling 
with  many  things ! 

Luc.  Hold  your  tongue,  mother  Jacqueline;  it  is  not 
for  you  to  poke  your  nose  there. 

Jacq.  I  tell  you,  and  a  dozen  more  of  you,'"'  that  all 
these  physicians  do  her  no  good ;    that   your  daughter  ' 

1''  The  original  has  qu'il  a  quelque  petit  coup  de  hache  d.  la  tete,  that 
he  has  received  some  small  blow  with  an  axe  on  his  head. 

18  Jacqueline  talks  in  a  kind  of  peasants'  dialect,  which  cannot  be 
translated.  The  first  sentence  is  thus  in  the  original :  Par  mafi,  monsieu, 
ceti-ci  fera  Justement  ce  qu  ant  fait  les  autres. 

19  Something  similar  is  said  by  Gros-Rene  in  the  third  scene  of  one  of 
Moli^re's  early  farces,  The  flying  Physician  i^Le  Medecin  volant),  which 
will  be  given  in  the  last  volume  of  this  edition. 

*"  The  original  has  an  attempt  at  a  play  on  words :  je  vous  dis  et  vous 
douze,  because  dis,  say,  and  dix,  ten,  have  nearly  the  same  pronunciation. 


272  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  fxcTii. 

wants  something  else  than  rhubarb  and  senna,  and  that  a 
husband  is  a  plaster  which  cures  all  girls'  complaints. 

Ger.  Would  any  one  have  her  in  her  present  state,  with 
that  affliction  on  her  ?  and  when  I  intended  her  to  marry, 
has  she  not  opposed  my  wishes  ? 

Jacq.  No  wonder.  You  wished  to  give  her  a  man 
whom  she  does  not  like.  Why  did  you  not  give  her  to 
Monsieur  Leandre,  who  takes  her  fancy  ?  She  would  have 
been  very  obedient,  and  I  vouch  for  it  that  he  will  take 
her  as  she  is,  if  you  but  give  her  to  him. 

Ger.  Leandre  is  not  the  man  we  want ;  he  has  not  got 
a  fortune  like  the  other. 

Jacq.  He  has  got  an  uncle  who  is  so  rich,  and  whose 
fortune  he  will  inherit. 

Ger.  All  these  expectations  seem  to  me  but  moonshine. 
Brag  is  a  good  dog,  but  Holdfast  is  a  better ;  and  we  run 
a  great  risk  in  waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes.  Death  is  not 
always  at  the  beck  and  call  of  gentlemen  heirs ;  and  while 
the  grass  grows,  the  cow  starves.'^ 

Jacq.  That  is  all  well  and  good,  but  I  have  always  heard 
that  in  marriage,  as  in  everything  else,  happiness  excels 
riches.  Fathers  and  mothers  have  this  cursed  habit  of 
asking  always,  "How  much  has  he  got?"  and  *' How 
much  has  she  got  ? ' '  And  gaffer  Peter  has  married  his 
Simonette  to  that  lout  Thomas,  because  he  has  got  a  few 
more  vineyards  than  young  Robin,  for  whom  the  girl  had 
a  fancy ;  and  now  the  poor  creature  is  as  yellow  as  a 
guinea,  and  has  not  looked  like  herself  ever  since.  That 
is  a  good  example  for  you.  Sir.  After  all,  folks  have  but 
their  pleasure  in  this  world  ;  and  I  would  sooner  give  my 
daughter  a  husband  whom  she  likes,  than  have  all  the 
riches  in  the  country.''* 

*i  This  is  rather  a  free  translation  of  Geronte's  speech.  The  original 
has :  Toils  ces  biens  a  venir  me  sembUnt  autant  de  chansons,  II  n'est  rien 
telce  qu'on  tient;  et  I' on  couttgrand  risque  de  i? abuser,  lorsque  I' on  compte 
sur  le  bien  qu'un  autre  vous  garde.  La  mort  n'a  pas  toujours  Us  oreilles 
ouvertes  aux  yeux  et  aux  prieres  de  messieurs  les  heritiers ;  et  I' on 
a  le  temps  d' avoir  les  dents  tongues,  lorsqu'  on  attend,  pour  vivre,  letrepas 
de  quelqi^un.  Avoir  les  dents  tongues  is,  according  to  Genin's  Lexique 
compark  de  la  langue  de  Moliere,  to  be  hungry,  because  hunger  is  sup- 
posed to  sharpen  one's  teeth. 

*"  The  original  has  toutes  les  rentes  de  la  Biatuse,  of  Beauce,  becanse 
it  is  one  of  the  richest  agricultural  parts  of  France — Beauce  having  for 


scENBiii.]         THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  273 

Ger.  Bless  me,  nurse,  how  you  chatter  !  Hold  your 
tongue,  let  me  beg  of  you  ;  you  take  too  much  upon  your- 
self, and  you  will  spoil  your  milk. 

Luc.  {SJapping  Geronte" s  shoulder  at  every  word).  In- 
deed, be  silent ;  you  are  too  saucy.  The  master  does  not 
want  your  speeches,  and  he  knows  what  he  is  about.  All 
you  have  got  to  do  is  to  suckle  your  baby,  without  arguing 
so  much.  Our  master  is  the  girl's  father,  and  he  is  good 
and  clever  enough  to  know  what  she  wants. 

Ger.  Gently,  gently. 

Luc.  {Still slappmg  Geronte' s  shoulder).  I  wish  to  show 
her  her  place,  and  teach  her  the  respect  due  to  you,  Sir. 

Ger.  Very  well.  But  it  does  not  need  all  this  gesticu- 
lating. 

Scene  III. — Valere,  Sganarelle,  Geronte,  Lucas, 
Jacqueline. 

Val.  Look  out.  Sir,  here  is  our  physician  coming. 

Ger.  {To  Sganarelle).  I  am  delighted,  to  see  you.  Sir, 
at  my  house,  and  we  have  very  great  need  of  you. 

Sgan.  {In  a  physician! s  gown  with  a  very  pointed  cap). 
Hippocrates  says  .  .   .  that  we  should  both  put  our  hats  on. 

Ger.  Hippocrates  says  that? 

Sgan.  Yes. 

Ger.  In  which  chapter,  if  you  please? 

Sgan.  In  his  chapter  ...  on  hats. 

Ger.  Since  Hippocrates  says  so,  we  must  obey. 

Sgan.  Doctor,  having  heard  of  the  marvellous  things .  .  . 

Ger.  To  whom  are  you  speaking,  pray  ? 

Sgan.  To  you. 

Ger.  I  am  not  a  physician 

Sgan.  You  are  not  a  physician  ? 

Ger.  Indeed  I  am  not. 


its  principal  towns  Dreux,  Chartres,  and  Chateaudun.  Rabelais,  in  his 
Garganiua,  Book  I.,  Chapter  16,  relates  how  the  huge  mare  on  which 
Gargantua  rode  destroyed  the  ox-flies  of  the  Beauce  with  her  enormous 
tail,  "  and  felled  everywhere  the  wood  with  as  much  ease,  as  the  mower 
doth  the  grass,  in  such  sort  that  never  since  hath  there  been  there 
neither  wood  nor  dorflies :  for  all  the  country  was  thereby  reduced  to  a 
plain  champagne  field,  which  Gargantua  took  great  pleasure  to  behold, 
and  said  to  his  company  no  more  but  this,  'Je  trouve  beau  ce,'  I  find 
this  pretty ;  whereupon  that  country  hath  been  ever  since  that  time  called 
Beauce." 

VOL.  II.  S 


274  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  [actii. 

Scan.  Really? 

Ger.  Really.  {Sganarelle  takes  a  stick  and  thrashes 
Geronte).     Oh!  Oh!  Oh! 

Sgan.  Now  you  are  a  physician,  I  have  never  taken  any 
other  degree. 

Ger.  (  To  Valere^.  What  a  devil  of  a  fellow  you  have 
brought  me  here ! 

Val.  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  he  was  a  funny  sort  of  a 
physician? 

Ger.  Yes;  But  I  shall  send  him  about  his  business  with 
his  fun. 

Luc.  Do  not  take  any  notice  of  it,  Sir.  It  is  only  his 
joking. 

Ger.  The  joking  does  not  suit  me. 

Sgan.  Sir;  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  liberty  I  have 
taken. 

Ger.  I  am  your  humble  servant,  Sir. 

Scan.  I  am  sorry  .    .    . 

Ger.   It  is  nothing. 

Sgan.  For  the  cudgelling  I  .    .    . 

Ger.   There  is  no  harm  done. 

Sgan.  Which  I  have  had  the  honour  to  give  you. 

Ger.  Do  not  say  any  more  about  it,  Sir.  I  have  a 
daughter  who  is  suffering  from  a  strange  complaint. 

Sgan.  I  am  delighted,  Sir,  that  your  daughter  has  need 
of  my  skill  ;  and  I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  that  you  stood 
in  the  same  need  of  it,  you  and  all  your  family,  in  order 
to  show  you  my  wish  to  serve  you. 

Ger.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  these  kind  feelings. 

Sgan.  I  assure  you  that  I  am  speaking  from  my  very 
heart. 

Ger.  You  really  do  me  too  much  honour. 

Sgan.  What  is  your  daughter's  name? 

Ger.  Lucinde. 

Sgan.  Lucinde!  Ah!  a  pretty  name  to  phjrsic!  Lu- 
cinde! ^ 

Ger.  I  will  just  see  what  she  is  doing. 

Sgan.  Who  is  that  tall  woman? 

Ger.  She  is  my  baby's  nurse. 

"  Not  unlikely  this  was  an  allusion  to  the  Juno  Lucinda. 


SCENE  v.]  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  275 


Scene  IV. — Sganarelle,  Jacqueline,  Lucas. 

Scan.  {Aside).  Zounds,  that  is  a  fine  piece  of  household 
furniture.  {Aloud).  Ah,  nurse!  Charming  nurse!  my 
physic  is  the  very  humble  slave  of  your  nurseship,  and 
I  should  like  to  be  the  fortunate  little  nursling  to  suck 
the  milk  of  your  good  graces.  {He  puts  his  hand  on  her 
bosom).  All  my  nostrums,  all  my  skill,  all  my  cleverness, 
is  at  your  service ;  and  .    .    . 

Luc.  By  your  leave,  Mr.  Doctor ;  leave  my  wife  alone, 
I  pray  you. 

Scan.  What !  is  she  your  wife  ? 

Luc.  Yes. 

Scan.  Oh  1  indeed !  I  did  not  know  that,  but  I  am  very 
glad  of  it  for  the  love  of  both.  {He  pretends  to  embrace 
LucaSi  but  embraces  the  nurse. 

Luc.  {Pulling  Sganarelle  away,  and  placing  himself 
between  him  and  his  wife).  Gently,  if  you  please. 

Scan.  I  assure  you  that  I  am  delighted  that  you  should 
be  united  together.  I  congratulate  her  upon  having  such 
a  husband  as  you ;  and  I  congratulate  you  upon  having  a 
wife  so  handsome,  so  discreet,  and  so  well-shaped  as  she 
is.  {He  pretends  once  more  to  e7nbrace  Lucas,  who  holds 
out  his  arms,  he  slips  under  them  and  embraces  the  nurse. 

Luc.  {Pulling  him  away  again).  Do  not  pay  so  many 
compliments,  I  beg  of  you. 

Scan.  Shall  I  not  rejoice  with  you  about  such  a  lovely 
harmony  ? 

Luc.  With  me  as  much  as  you  like;  but  a  truce  to 
compliments  with  my  wife. 

Scan.  I  have  both  your  happiness  equally  at  heart; 
and  if  I  embrace  you  to  show  my  delight  in  you,  I  em- 
brace her  to  show  my  delight  in  her.     {Same  by-play). 

Luc.  {Pulling  him  away  for  the  third  time).  Odds 
boddikins,  Mr.  Doctor,  what  vagaries ! 

Scene  V. — Geronte,  Sganarelle,  Lucas,  Jacqueline. 

Ger.  My  daughter  will  be  here  directly.  Sir. 
Scan.  I  am  awaiting  her,  Sir,  with  all  my  physic. 
Ger.  Where  is  it  ? 


2/6  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  Xact  ii. 

Scan.  {Touching  his  forehead).     In  there. 

Ger.  That  is  good. 

Scan.  But  as  I  feel  much  interested  in  your  family,  I 
should  like  to  test  the  milk  of  your  nurse,  and  examine  her 
breasts.     (  He  draws  close  to  Jacqueline). 

Luc.  ( Pulling  him  away,  and  swinging  him  round). 
Nothing  of  the  sort,  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  do  not  wish  it. 

Scan.  It  is  the  physician's  duty  to  see  the  breasts  of 
the  nurse. 

Luc.  Duty  or  no  duty,  I  will  not  have  it. 

Scan.  Have  you  the  audacity  to  contradict  a  physician  ? 
Out  with  you. 

Luc.  I  do  not  care  a  straw  about  a  physician. 

Scan.  {Looking  askance  at  him).  I  will  give  you  a 
fever. 

Jacq.  {Taking  Lucas  by  the  arm,  and  swinging  him 
round  also).  Get  out  of  the  way.  Am  I  not  big  enough 
to  take  ray  own  part,  if  he  does  anything  to  me  which 
he  ought  not  to  do  ? 

Luc.  I  will  not  have  him  touch  you,  I  will  not. 
'     Sgan.  For  shame  you  rascal,  to  be  jealous  of  your  wife. 

Ger.  Here  comes  my  daughter. 

Scene  VI. — Lucinde,  G^rgnte,  Sganarelle,  Val^re, 
Lucas,  Jacqueune. 

Sgan.  Is  this  the  patient  ? 

Ger.  Yes  I  have  but  one  daughter ;  and  I  would  never 
get  over  it  if  she  were  to  die. 

Sgan.  Do  not  let  her  do  anything  of  the  kind.  She 
must  not  die  without  a  prescription  of  the  physician.** 

Ger.  a  chair  here  ! 

Sgan.  {Seated  between  Geronte  and  Lucinde).  This  is 
not  at  all  an  unpleasant  patient,  and  I  am  of  opinion  that 
she  would  not  be  at  all  amiss  for  a  man  in  very  good 
health. 

Ger.  You  have  made  her  laugh.  Sir. 

Sgan.  So  much  the  better.  It  is  the  best  sign  in  the 
world  when  a  physician  makes  the  patient   laugh.     {To 

**  Geronte  and  Sganarelle's  remarks  are  also  found  slightly  altered  in 
Molifere's  The  flying  Physician,  one  of  his  early  farces. 


SCENE  VI.J         THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  277 

Lucinde).     Well,  what  is  the  matter?    What  ails  you? 
What  is  it  you  feel  ? 

Luc.  {Replies  by  motions,  by  putting  her  hand  to  her 
mouth,  her  head,  and  under  her  chin).     Ha,  hi,  ho,  ha ! 

Sgan.  What  do  you  say  ? 

Luc.  {Continues  the  same  motions^.  Ha,  hi,  ho,  ha,  ha, 
hi,  ho ! 

Scan.  What  is  that? 

Luc.  Ha,  hi,  ho ! 

Scan.  {Imitating  her').     Ha,  hi,  ho,  ha,  ha !     I  do  not  ^ 
understand  you.     What  sort  of  language  do  you  call  that  ? 

Ger.  That  is  just  where  her  complaint  lies.  Sir.  She 
has  become  dumb,  without  our  having  been  able  till  now 
to  discover  the  cause.  This  accident  has  obliged  us  to 
postpone  her  marriage. 

Sgan.  And  why  so  ? 

Ger.  He  whom  she  is  going  to  marry  wishes  to  wait 
for  her  recovery  to  conclude  the  marriage. 

Sgan.  And  who  is  this  fool  that  does  not  want  his  wife 
to  be  dumb  ?  Would  to  Heaven  that  mine  had  that  com- 
plaint !  I  should  take  particular  care  not  to  have  her 
cured. 

Ger.  To  the  point.  Sir.  We  beseech  you  to  use  all 
your  skill  to  cure  her  of  this  affliction. 

Sgan.  Do  not  make  yourself  uneasy.  But  tell  me,  does 
this  pain  oppress  her  much  ? 

Ger.  Yes,  Sir. 

Sgan.  So  much  the  better.    Is  the  suffering  very  acute  ? 

Ger.  Very  acute. 

Sgan.  That  is  right.  Does  she  go  to  .  .  .  you  know 
where  ? 

Ger.  Yes. 

Sgan.  Freely? 

Ger.  That  I  know  nothing  about. 

Sgan.  Is  the  matter  healthy  ? 

Ger.  I  do  not  understand  these  things. 

Sgan.  ( Turning  to  the  patient^.  Give  me  your  hand. 
{To  Geronte).  The  pulse  tells  me  that  your  daughter  is 
dumb. 

Ger.  Sir,  that  is  what  is  the  matter  with  her ;  ah  !  yes, 
you  have  found  it  out  at  the  first  touch. 


2/8  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  n. 

Scan.  Of  course ! 

Jacq.  See  how  he  has  guessed  her  complaint. 

Scan.  We  great  physicians,  we  know  matters  at  once. 
An  ignoramus  would  have  been  nonplussed,  and  would 
have  told  you :  it  is  this,  that,  or  the  other ;  but  I  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head  from  the  very  first,  and  I  tell  you  that 
your  daughter  is  dumb. 

Ger.  Yes;  but  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me  whence  it 
arises. 

Scan.  Nothing  is  easier ;  it  arises  from  loss  of  speech. 

Ger.  Very  good.  But  the  reason  of  her  having  lost  her 
speech,  pray? 

Sgan.  Our  best  authorities  will  tell  you  that  it  is  be- 
cause there  is  an  impediment  in  the  action  of  her 
tongue. 

Ger.  But,  once  more,  your  opinion  upon  this  impedi- 
ment in  the  action  of  her  tongue. 

Sgan.  Aristotle  on  this  subject  says  ...  a  great  many 
clever  things. 

Ger.  I  dare  say. 

Sgan.  Ah  !  He  was  a  great  man ! 

Ger.  No  doubt. 

Sgan.  Yes,  a  very  great  man.  {Holding  out  his  arm, 
and  putting  a  finger  of  the  other  hand  in  the  bend).  A  man 
who  was,  by  this,  much  greater  than  I.  But  to  come 
back  to  our  argument :  I  am  of  opinion  that  this  impedi- 
ment in  the  action  of  her  tongue  is  caused  by  certain  hu- 
mours, which  among  us  learned  men,  we  call  peccant  hu- 
mours ;  peccant — that  is  to  say  .  .  .  peccant  humours ; 
inasmuch  as  the  vapours  formed  by  the  exhalations  of  the 
influences  which  rise  in  the  very  region  of  diseases,  com- 
ing, .  .  .  as  we  may  say  to  .  .  .  Do  you  understand 
Latin? 

Ger.  Not  in  the  least. 

Sgan.    {Suddenly  rising).      You  do   not   understand 
Latin? 

Ger.  No. 

Sgan.  {Assuming  various  comic  attitudes).  CabriciaB 
arci  thuram,  catalamus,  singulariter,  nominativo,  hac 
nrusa,  the  muse,  bonus,  bona,  bonum.  Deus  sanctus,  est- 
ne  oratio  latinos  f    Etiam,  Yes.      Quare?    Why.     Quic^ 


scwwvi.]         THE  PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  279 

substantivo  et  adjectivum,  concordat  in  generi,  numerum,  et 
casus. ^ 

Ger.  Ah  !  Why  did  I  not  study  ? 

Jacq.  What  a  clever  man  ! 

Luc.  Yes,  it  is  so  beautiful  that  I  do  not  understand  a 
word  of  it. 

Scan.  Thus  these  vapours  which  I  speak  of,  passing 
from  the  left  side,  where  the  liver  is,  to  the  right  side, 
where  we  find  the  heart,  it  so  happens  that  the  lungs, 
which  in  Latin  we  call  armyan,  having  communication 
with  the  brain,  which  in  Greek  we  style  nasmus,  by  means 
of  the  vena  cava,  which  in  Hebrew,  is  termed  cubile,^ 
meet  in  their  course  the  said  vapours,  which  fill  the  ven- 
tricles of  the  omoplata ;  and  because  the  said  vapours  .  .  . 
now  understand  well  this  argument,  pray  .  .  .  and  be- 
cause these  said  vapours  are  endowed  with  a  certain  ma- 
lignity .    .    .  listen  well  to  this,  I  beseech  you. 

Ger.  Yes. 

Sgan.  Are  endowed  with  a.  certain  malignity  which  is 
caused  .    .    .  pay  attention  here,  if  you  please. 

Ger.  I  do. 

Sgan.  Which  is  caused  by  the  acridity  of  these  humours 
engendered  in  the  concavity  of  the  diaphragm,  it  happens 
that  these  vapours.  .  .  .  Ossabandus,  nequeis,  nequer, 
fotarinum,  piiipsa  milus.^  That  is  exactly  the  reason  that 
your  daughter  is  dumb. 

Jacq.  Ah  !  How  well  this  gentleman  explains  all  this. 

Luc.  Why  does  not  my  tongue  wag  as  well  as  his  ? 

Ger.  It  is  undoubtedly  impossible  to  argue  better. 
There  is  but  one  thing  that  I  cannot  exactly  make  out : 
that  is  the  whereabouts  of  the  liver  and  the  heart.     It  ap- 


^  The  first  four  words  of  Sganarelle's  address  are  words  of  Moli^re's 
coining,  and  belong  to  no  language ;  the  rest  is  a  truncated  quotation 
of  the  following  passage  from  the  old  Latin  grammar  of  Despaut^re  : 
Deus  sanctus,  est-ne  oratio  latina  f  Etiam.  Quare  f  Quia  substantivum 
et  adjectivum  concordant  ingenere,  numero,  casu.  In  pronouncing  the 
word  casus,  which  means  "case,'  and  "fall,"  the  actor,  who  plays  the 
part  of  Sganarelle,  upsets  his  chair  whilst  sitting  down,  and  falls  on  the 
floor,  according  to  tradition. 

**  Armyan  and  Nasmus  belong  to  no  language ;  cubile  is  the  Latin 
for  bed  or  den. 

**  These  words  belong  to  no  language. 


280  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF  [act  ii. 

pears  to  me  that  you  place  them  differently  from  what 
they  are ;  that  the  heart  is  on  the  left,  side,  and  the  liver 
on  the  right. 

Sgan.  Yes ;  this  was  so  formerly ;  but  we  have  changed 
all  that,  and  we  now-a-days  practise  the  medical  art  on  an 
entirely  new  system. 

Ger.  I  did  not  know  that,  and  I  pray  you  pardon  my 
ignorance. 

Sgan.  There  is  no  harm  done ;  and  you  are  not  obliged 
to  be  so  clever  as  we  are. 

Ger.  Certainly  not.  But  what  think  you,  Sir,  ought 
to  be  done  for  this  complaint  ? 

Sgan.   What  do  I  think  ought  to  be  done  ? 

Ger.  Yes. 

Sgan.  My  advice  is  to  put  her  to  bed  again,  and  make 
her,  as  a  remedy,  take  plenty  of  bread  soaked  in  wine. 

Ger.  Why  so,  sir  ? 

Sgan.  Because  there  is  in  bread  and  wine  mixed  to- 
gether a  sympathetic  virtue  which  produces  speech.  Do 
you  not  see  that  they  give  nothing  else  to  parrots,  and 
that,  by  eating  it,  they  learn  to  speak  ? 

Ger.  That  is  true.  Oh !  the  great  man  !  Quick,  plenty 
of  bread  and  wine. 

Sgan.  I  shall  come  back  to-night  to  see  how  the  patient 
is  getting  on. 

Scene  VII. — Geronte,   Sganarelle,  Jacqueline. 

Sgan.  {^To  Jacqueline).  Stop  a  little  you.  {To  Geronte). 
Sir,  I  must  give  some  medicine  to  your  nurse. 

Jacq.  To  me,  Sir  ?     I  am  as  well  as  can  be. 

Sgan.  So  much  the  worse,  nurse,  so  much  the  worse. 
This  excess  of  health  is  dangerous,  and  it  would  not  be 
amiss  to  bleed  you  a  little  gently,  and  to  administer  some 
little  soothing  injection. 

Ger.  But,  my  dear  Sir,  that  is  a  method  which  I  can- 
not understand.     Why  bleed  folks  when  they  are  not  ill  ? 

Sgan.  It  does  not  matter,  the  method  is  salutary ;  and 
as  we  drink  for  the  thirst  to  come,  so  must  we  bleed  for 
the  disease  to  come.® 

*8  This  is  really  no  joke.  It  was  the  custom  in  Moli^re's  time  to 
swallow  a  certain  amount  of  physic  as  a  matter  of  precaution,  and  in 
case  of  future  maladies. 


SCKNKVIII.]       THE   PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  28l 

Jacq.  {Going).  I  do  not  care  a  fig  for  all  this,  and  I 
will  not  have  my  body  made  an  apothecary's  shop. 

Scan.  You  object  to  my  remedies  ;  but  we  shall  know 
how  to  bring  you  to  reason. 

Scene  VIII. — Gi:ronte,  Sganarelle. 

Scan.  I  wish  you  good  day. 

Ger.  Stay  a  moment,  if  you  please. 

Scan.  What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Ger.  Give  you  your  fee,  sir. 

Scan.  {Putting  his  hands  behind  him,  from  under  his 
gown,  while  Geronte  opens  his  purse).  I  shall  not  accept 
it.  Sir. 

Ger.  Sir. 

Scan.  Not  at  all. 

Ger.  One  moment. 

Sgan.   On  no  consideration. 

Ger.  Pray  ! 

Scan.  You  are  jesting. 

Ger.  That  is  settled. 

Sgan.  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  \ 

Ger.  What ! 

Sgan.  I  do  not  practise  for  money's  sake.*® 

Ger.  I  am  convinced  of  that. 

Sgan.  {After  having  taken  the  money).  Are  they  good 
weight  ? 

Ger.  Yes,  Sir. 

Sgan.  I  am  not  a  mercenary  physician. 

Ger.  I  am  well  aware  of  it. 

Sgan.  I  am  not  actuated  by  interest. 

Ger.  I  do  not  for  a  moment  think  so. 

Sgan.  {Alone,   looking  at  the  money  he  has  received). 

^  This  is  taken  from  Rabelais'  Pantagniel,  Book  III.,  Chapter  34, 
when  Panurge,  having  taken  counsel  with  the  physician  Rondibilis, 
clapped  into  his  hand,  without  the  speaking  of  so  much  as  one  word,  four 
rose  nobles.  "  Rondibilis  did  shut  his  fist  upon  them  right  kindly;  yet,  as 
if  it  had  displeased  him  to  make  acceptance  of  such  golden  presents,  he 
in  a  start,  as  if  he  had  been  wroth,  said,  He,  he,  he,  he,  he,  there  was  no 
need  of  anything,  I  thank  you  nevertheless.  From  wicked  folks  I  never 
get  enough,  and  from  honest  people  I  refuse  nothing.  I  shall  be  always, 
Sir,  at  your  command.  Provided  that  I  pay  you  well,  quoth  Panurge. 
That,  quoth  Rondibilis,  is  understood.'' 


282  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  h. 

Upon  my  word,  this  does  not  promise  badly ;  and  pro- 
vided .   .   . 

Scene  IX. — Leandre,  Sganarells. 

Lean.  I  have  been  waiting  some  time  for  you,  Sir,  and 
I  have  come  to  beg  your  assistance. 

Sg.\n.   (^Feeling  his pulse^.     That  is  a  very  bad  pulse. 

Lean.  I  am  not  ill.  Sir ;  and  it  is  not  for  that  I  am 
come  to  you. 

Scan.  If  you  are  not  ill,  why  the  devil  do  you  not  tell 
me  so? 

Lean.  No.  To  tell  you  the  matter  in  a  few  words, 
my  name  is  Leandre.  I  am  in  love  with  Lucinde  to 
whom  you  have  just  paid  a  visit ;  and  as  all  access  to  her 
is  denied  to  me,  through  the  ill-temper  of  her  father,  I 
venture  to  beseech  you  to  serve  me  in  my  love  affair,  and 
to  assist  me  in  a  stratagem  that  I  have  invented,  so  as  to  say 
a  few  words  to  her,  on  which  my  whole  life  and  happiness 
absolutely  depend. 

Scan.  {In  apparent  anger).  Whom  do  you  take  me 
for?  How  dare  you  address  yourself  to  me  to  assist  you 
in  your  love  affair,  and  to  wish  me  to  lower  the  dignity  of 
a  physician  by  an  affair  of  that  kind  ! 

Lean.  Do  not  make  a  noise,  Sir. 

Scan.  {Driving  him  back).  I  will  make  a  noise.  You 
are  an  impertinent  fellow. 

Lean.  Ah  !  gently.  Sir. 

Scan.   An  ill-mannered  jackanapes. 

Lean.  Pray! 

Sgan.  I  will  teach  you  that  I  am  not  the  kind  of  man 
you  take  me  for,  and  that  it  is  the  greatest  insolence  .  .  . 

Lean.  {Taking  out  a  purse^.     Sir.    .    . 

Sgan.  To  wish  to  employ  me  .  .  .  {taking  the  purse). 
I  am  not  speaking  about  you,  for  you  are  a  gentleman  ; 
and  I  should  be  delighted  to  be  of  any  use  to  you  ;  but 
there  are  certain  impertinent  people  in  this  world  who 
take  folks  for  what  they  are  not ;  and  I  tell  you  candidly 
that  this  puts  me  in  a  passion. 

Lean.  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir,  for  the  liberty  I  have  .  .  . 

Sgan.   You  are  jesting.     What  is  the  affair  in  question  ? 

Lean.  You  must  know  then,  Sir,  that  this  disease  which 


scsn  i.l  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  283 

you  wish  to  cure  is  a  feigned  complaint.  The  physicians 
have  argued  about  it,  as  they  ought  to  do,  and  they  have 
not  failed  to  give  it  as  their  opinion, — this  one,  that  it 
arose  from  the  brain;  that  one,  from  the  intestines; 
another,  from  the  spleen ;  another,  again,  from  the  liver ; 
but  the  fact  is  that  love  is  its  real  cause,  and  that  Lucinde 
has  only  invented  this  illness  in  order  to  free  herself  from 
a  marriage  with  which  she  has  been  harassed.  But  for 
fear  that  we  may  be  seen  together,  let  us  retire ;  and  I 
will  tell  you  as  we  go  along,  what  I  wish  you  to  do. 

Scan,  Come  along,  then.  Sir.  You  have  inspired  me 
with  an  inconceivable  interest  in  your  love ;  and  if  all  my 
medical  science  does  not  fail  me,  the  patient  shall  either 
die  or  be  yours. 


ACT  m. 

(^Tkr  sceTU  represents  a  spot  near  Geronte's  lumseJ) 
Scene  L — ^Leandre,  Sganarelle. 

Lean.  I  think  that  I  am  not  at  all  badly  got  up  for  an 
apothecary ;  and  as  her  father  has  scarcely  ever  seen  me, 
this  change  of  dress  and  wig  is  likely  enough,  I  think,  to 
disguise  me. 

Scan.  There  is  no  doubt  of  it. 

Le-\n.  Only  I  should  like  to  know  five  or  six  big  medi- 
cal words  to  leaven  my  conversation  with,  and  to  give  me 
the  air  of  a  learned  man. 

Scan.  Go  along,  go  along ;  it  is  not  at  all  necessary. 
The  dress  is  sufl&cient;  and  I  know  no  more  about  it  than 
you  do. 

Lean.  How  is  that ! 

Scan.  The  devil  take  me  if  I  understand  anything 
about  medicine  !  You  are  a  gentleman,  and  I  do  not 
mind  confiding  in  you,  as  you  have  confided  in  me. 

Lean.  What !     Then  you  are  not  really  .  .  . 

Scan.  No,  I  tell  you.  They  have  made  me  a  phj^cian 
in  spite  of  my  teeth.  I  have  never  attempted  to  be  so 
learned  as  that;  and  all  my  studies  did  not  go  ferther 
than  the  lowest  class  at  school.     I  do  not  know  how  the 


284  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  hi. 

idea  has  come  to  them ;  but  when  I  saw  that  in  spite  of 
every  thing  they  would  have  it  that  I  was  a  physician,  I 
made  up  ray  mind  to  be  so  at  somebody's  expense.  You 
would  not  believe,  however,  how  this  error  has  spread, 
and  how  everyone  is  possessed,  and  believes  me  to  be  a 
learned  man.  They  come  seeking  me  on  all  sides ;  and 
if  things  go  on  in  this  way,  I  am  resolved  to  stick  to  the 
profession  all  my  life.  I  find  that  it  is  the  best  trade  of 
all ;  for,  whether  we  manage  well  or  ill,  we  are  paid  just 
the  same.  Bad  workmanship  never  recoils  on  us ;  and 
we  cut  the  material  we  have  to  work  with  pretty  much  as 
we  like.  A  shoemaker,  in  making  a  pair  of  shoes,  cannot 
spoil  a  scrap  of  leather  without  having  to  bear  the  loss ; 
but  in  our  business  we  may  spoil  a  man  without  its  cost- 
ing us  a  farthing.  The  blunders  are  never  put  down  to 
us,  and  it  is  always  the  fault  of  the  fellow  who  dies.  The 
best  of  this  profession  is,  that  there  is  the  greatest  honesty 
and  discretion  among  the  dead ;  for  you  never  find  them 
complain  of  the  physician  who  has  killed  them. 

Lean.  It  is  true  that  the  dead  are  very  honourable  in 
that  respect. 

Scan.  {Seeing  some  people  advancing  towards  him'). 
There  come  some  people,  who  seem  anxious  to  consult 
me.  {To  Leandre~).  Go  and  wait  for  me  near  the  house 
of  your  lady-love. 

Scene  II. — Thibaut,  Perrin,  Sganarelle. 

Thib.  Sir,  we  come  to  look  for  you,  my  son  Perrin  and 
myself." 

Scan.  What  is  the  matter  ? 

Thib.  His  poor  mother,  whose  name  is  Perrette,  has 
been  on  a  bed  of  sickness  for  the  last  six  months. 

Scan.  {Holding  out  his  hand  as  if  to  receive  money). 
What  would  you  have  me  do  to  her  ? 

Thib.  I  would  like  you  to  give  me  some  little  doctor's 
stuff  to  cure  her. 

Scan.  We  must  first  see  what  is  the  matter  with  her. 

Thib.  She  is  ill  with  the  hypocrisy.  Sir. 

*•  In  the  original,  Thibaut  speaks  like  a  peasant ;  as  Mounsie,  je  venons 
vous  charcher,  monfils  Perrin  et  mot. 


SCENE  n.]  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  285 

Scan.  With  the  hypocrisy? 

Thib.  Yes ;  I  mean  she  is  swollen  everywhere.  They 
say  that  there  is  a  lot  of  seriosities  in  her  inside,  and  that 
her  liver,  her  belly,  or  her  spleen,  as  you  would  call  it, 
instead  of  making  blood  makes  nothing  but  water.  She 
has,  every  other  day,  the  quotiguian  fever,  with  lassitude 
and  pains  in  the  muscles  of  her  legs.  We  can  hear  in  her 
throat  phlegms  that  are  ready  to  choke  her,  and  she  is 
often  taken  with  syncoles  and  conversions,  so  that  we 
think  she  is  going  off  the  hooks.  We  have  got  in  our 
village  an  apothecary — with  respect  be  it  said — who  has 
given  her,  I  do  not  know  how  much  stuff;  and  it  has 
cost  me  more  than  a  dozen  good  crowns  in  clysters, 
saving  your  presence,  in  apostumes  which  he  has  made 
her  swallow,  in  infections  of  hyacinth,  and  in  cordial 
potions.  But  all  this,  as  people  say,  was  nothing  but  an 
ointment  of  fiddle-faddle.  He  wanted  to  give  her  a  cer- 
tain drug  called  ametile  wine;  but  I  was  downright 
afeard  that  this  would  send  her  to  the  other  world  alto- 
gether; because  they  tell  me  that  those  big  physicians 
kill,  I  do  not  know  how  many,  with  that  new-fangled 
notion.*^ 

Sgan.  (^Stiil  holding  out  his  hand,  and  moving  it  about 
to  show  that  he  wants  money).  Let  us  come  to  the  point, 
friend,  let  us  come  to  the  point. 

Thib.  The  point  is.  Sir,  that  we  have  come  to  beg  of 
you  to  tell  us  what  we  must  do. 

Sgan.  I  do  not  understand  you  at  all. 

Per.  My  mother  is  ill.  Sir,  and  here  are  two  crowns 
which  we  have  brought  you  to  give  us  some  stuff. 

Sgan.  Ah  !  you  I  do  understand.  There  is  a  lad  who 
speaks  clearly,  and  explains  himself  as  he  should.  You 
say  that  your  mother  is  ill  with  the  dropsy ;  that  she  is 
swollen  all  over  her  body ;  that  she  has  a  fever,  with  pains 
in  the  legs;  that  she  sometimes  is  taken  with  syncopes 
and  convulsions,  that  is  to  say  with  fainting  fits. 

Per.  Indeed,  Sir !   that  is  just  it. 


'1  Of  course,  Thibaut  mispronounces  nearly  every  word,  and  also  the 
medical  words.  Sganarelle  corrects  him  a  little  further  on.  For  emetic 
wine,  which  he  calls  "ametile  wine,"  see  page  104,  note  16. 


286  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  in. 

Scan.  I  understand  you  at  once.  Your  father  does  not 
know  what  he  says.     And  now  you  ask  me  for  a  remedy? 

Per.  Yes,  sir. 

Scan.  A  remedy  to  cure  her? 

Per.  That  is  just  what  I  mean. 

Sgan.  Take  this  then.  It  is  a  piece  of  cheese  which 
you  must  make  her  take. 

Per.  a  piece  of  cheese,  Sir  ? 

Sgan.  Yes ;  it  is  a  kind  of  prepared  cheese,  in  which 
there  is  gold,  coral,  and  pearls,  and  a  great  many  other 
precious  things. 

Per.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  Sir,  and  I  shall 
go  and  make  her  take  it  directly. 

Sgan.  Go,  and  if  she  dies,  do  not  fail  to  bury  her  in 
the  best  style  you  can. 

Scene  III. — {The  Scene  changes,  and  represents,  as  in  the 
Second  Act,  a  room  in  Geronte' s  house^ — Jacqueline, 
Sganarelle,  Lucas,  at  the  far  end  of  the  stage. 

Sgan.  Here  is  the  pretty  nurse.  Ah  !  you  darling 
nurse,  I  am  delighted  at  this  meeting ;  and  the  sight  of 
you  is  like  rhubarb,  cassia,  and  senna  to  me,  which  purges 
all  melancholy  from  my  mind. 

Jacq.  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Physician,  it  is  no  good 
talking  to  me  in  that  style,  and  I  do  not  understand  your 
Latin  at  all. 

Sgan.  Get  ill,  nurse,  I  beg  of  you ;  get  ill  for  my  sake. 
I  shall  have  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world  of  curing  you. 

Jacq.  I  am  your  humble  servant ;  I  would  much  rather 
not  be  cured. 

Sgan.  How  I  grieve  for  you,  beautiful  nurse,  in  having 
such  a  jealous  and  troublesome  husband. 

Jacq.  What  am  I  to  do,  Sir  ?  It  is  as  a  penance  for 
my  sins;  and  where  the  goat  is  tied  down  she  must 
browse. 

Sgan.  What !  Such  a  clod-hopper  as  that  !  a  fellow 
who  is  always  watching  yoii,  and  will  let  no  one  speak  to 
you  ! 

Jacq.  Alas !  you  have  seen  nothing  yet ;  and  that  is 
only  a  small  sample  of  his  bad  temper. 


SCENE  v.]  THE   PHYSICIAN   IN   SPITE   OF   HIMSELF.  287 

Scan.  Is  it  possible  ?  and  can  a  man  have  -so  mean  a 
spirit  as  to  ill-use  a  woman  like  you  ?  Ah  !  I  know  some, 
sweet  nurse,  and  who  are  not  very  far  off,  who  would  only 
be  too  glad  to  kiss  your  little  feet  !  Why  should  such  a 
handsome  woman  have  fallen  into  such  hands !  and  a  mere 
animal,  a  brute,  a  stupid,  a  fool  .  .  .  Excuse  me,  nurse, 
for  speaking  in  that  way  of  your  husband. 

Jacq.  Oh  !  Sir,  I  know  full  well  that  he  deserves  all 
these  names. 

Scan.  Undoubtedly,  nurse,  he  deserves  them ;  and  he 
also  deserves  that  you  should  plant  something  on  his  head 
to  punish  him  for  his  suspicions. 

Jacq.  It  is  true  enough  that  if  I  had  not  his  interest 
so  much  at  heart,  he  would  drive  me  to  do  some  strange 
things. 

Scan.  Indeed  it  would  just  serve  him  right  if  you  were 
to  revenge  yourself  upon  him  with  some  one.  The  fellow 
richly  deserves  it  all,  I  tell  you,  and  if  I  were  fortunate 
enough,  fair  nurse,  to  be  chosen  by  you  .    .    . 

(^WJiile  Sganarelle  is  holding  out  his  arms  to  embrace 
Jacqueline,  Lucas  passes  his  head  under  them,  and 
comes  between  the  two.  Sganarelle  and  Jacqueline 
stare  at  Lucas,  and  depart  on  opposite  sides,  but  the 
doctor  does  so  in  a  very  comic  manner). 

Scene  IV. — Geronte,  Lucas. 

Ger.  I  say,  Lucas,  have  not  you  seen  our  physician 
here? 

Luc.  Indeed  I  have  seen  him,  by  all  the  devils,  and  my 
wife  too. 

Ger.  Where  can  he  be  ? 

Luc.  I  do  not  know ;  but  I  wish  he  were  at  the  devil. 

Ger.  Just  go  and  see  what  my  daughter  is  doing. 

Scene  V. — Sganarelle,  Le:andre,  Geronte. 

Ger.  I  was  just  inquiring  after  you.  Sir. 

Scan.  I  have  just  been  amusing  myself  in  your  court 
with  expelling  the  superfluity  of  drink.  How  is  the 
patient  ? 

Ger.    Somewhat  worse  since  your  remedy. 

Scan.  So  much  the  better  ;  it  shows  that  it  takes  effect. 


288  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  in, 

Ger.  Yes ;  but  while  it  is  taking  effect,  I  am  afraid  it 
will  choke  her. 

Scan.  Do  not  make  yourself  uneasy ;  I  have  some 
remedies  that  will  make  it  all  right !  and  I  will  wait  until 
she  is  at  death's  door. 

Ger.  (Poinding  to  Liandre).  Who  is  this  man  that  is 
with  you  ? 

Sgan.  {Intimates  by  motions  of  his  hands  that  it  is  an 
apothecary).     It  is 

Ger.   What? 

Sgan.  He  who  .  .  . 

Ger.  Oh! 

Sgan.  Who  .... 

Ger.  I  understand. 

Sgan.  Your  daughter  will  want  him. 

Scene  VI. — Lucinde,  G^ronte,  Leiandre,  Jacqueline, 
Sganarelle. 

Jacq.  Here  is  your  daughter.  Sir,  who  wishes  to  stretch 
her  limbs  a  little. 

Sgan.  That  will  do  her  good.  Go  to  her,  Mr.  Apothe- 
cary, and  feel  her  pulse,  so  that  I  may  consult  with  you 
presently  about  her  complaint.  {At  this  point  he  draws 
Geronte  to  one  end  of  the  stage,  and  putting  one  arm  upon 
his  shoulder,  he  places  his  hand  under  his  chin,  with  which 
he  makes  him  turn  towards  him,  each  time  that  Geronte 
wants  to  look  at  what  is  passing  between  his  daughter  and 
the  apothecary,  while  he  holds  the  following  discourse  with 
him).  Sir,  it  is  a  great  and  subtle  question  among  physi- 
cians to  know  whether  women  or  men  are  more  easily 
cured.  I  pray  you  to  listen  to  this,  if  you  please.  Some 
say  "no,"  others  say  "yes:"  I  say  both  "yes"  and 
"no;"  inasmuch  as  the  incongruity  of  the  opaque  hu- 
mours, which  are  found  in  the  natural  temperament  of 
women,  causes  the  brutal  part  to  struggle  for  the  mastery 
over  the  sensitive,'*  we  find  that  the  conflict  of  their  opin- 
ion depends  on  the  oblique  motion  of  the  circle  of  the 
moon ;  and  as  the  sun,  which  darts  its  beams  on  the  con- 
cavity of  the  earth,  meets  .    .    . 

'*  Compare  Gros  Rene's  Speech  in  The  Love  Tiff,  Act  iv.,  Scene  ii., 
Vol.  I.,  page  lis. 


SCBNB  VI.]         THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  289 

Luc.  {To  Leandre).  No ;  I  am  not  at  all  likely  to 
change  my  feelings. 

Ger.  Hark  !  my  daughter  speaks  !  O,  great  virtue  of 
the  remedy  !  O,  excellent  physician  !  How  deeply  am  I 
obliged  to  you,  Sir,  for  this  marvellous  cure  !  And  what 
can  I  do  for  you  after  such  a  service  ? 

Scan.  (Strutting  about  the  stage,  fanning  himself  with 
his  hat).     This  case  has  given  me  some  trouble. 

Luc.  Yes,  father,  I  have  recovered  my  speech;  but  I 
have  recovered  it  to  tell  you  that  I  will  never  have  any 
other  husband  than  Leandre,  and  that  it  is  in  vain  for  you 
to  wish  to  give  me  to  Horace. 

Ger.  But    ... 

Luc.  Nothing  will  shake  the  resolution  I  have  taken. 

Ger.  What    .    .    . 

Luc.   All  your  fine  arguments  will  be  in  vain 

Ger.  If   .    .    . 

Luc.  All  you  talking  will  be  of  no  use. 

Ger.  I    .    .    . 

Luc.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  about  the  matter. 

Ger.  But     .     . 

Luc.  No  paternal  authority  can  compel  me  to  marry 
against  my  will. 

Ger.  I  have    .     .    . 

Luc.  You  may  try  as  much  as  you  like. 

Ger.  It    .    .    . 

Luc.  My  heart  cannot  submit  to  this  tyranny. 

Ger.  The    .    .    . 

Luc.  And  I  will  sooner  go  into  a  convent  than  marry 
a  man  I  do  not  love. 

Ger.  But    .    .    . 

Luc.  (In  a  loud  voice).  No.  By  no  means.  It  is  of  no  use. 
You  waste  your  time.  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I 
am  fully  determined. 

Ger.  Ah  !  what  a  torrent  of  words  !  One  cannot  hold 
out  against  it.  (To  Sganarelle).  I  beseech  you,  Sir,  to 
make  her  dumb  again. 

Scan.  That  is  impossible.  All  that  I  can  do  in  your 
behalf  is  to  make  you  deaf,  if  you  like. 

Ger.  I  thank  you.     (To  Lucinde).    Do  you  think  .  .  . 

VOL.  II.  T 


290  THE  PHYSICIAN  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  [act  m. 

Luc  No ;  all  your  reasoning  will  not  have  the  slighted 
effect  upon  me. 

Ger.  You  shall  marry  Horace  this  very  evening. 

Luc.  I  would  sooner  marry  death  itself. 

Scan.  (7b  Gironte).  Stop,  for  Heaven's  sake!  stop. 
Let  me  doctor  this  matter ;  it  is  a  disease  that  has  got 
hold  of  her,  and  I  know  the  remedy  to  apply  to  it. 

Ger.  Is  it  possible,  indeed,  Sir,  that  you  can  cure  this 
disease  of  the  mind  also? 

Scan.  Yes;  let  me  manage  it.  I  have  remedies  for 
every  thing ;  and  our  apothecary  will  serve  us  capitally 
for  this  cure.  (  To  Liandre).  A  word  with  you.  You  per- 
ceive that  the  passion  she  has  for  this  L^andre  is  alto- 
gether against  the  wishes  of  the  father ;  that  there  is  no 
time  to  lose ;  that  the  humours  are  very  acrimonious ;  and 
that  it  becomes  necessary  to  find  speedily  a  remedy  for 
this  complaint,  which  may  get  worse  by  delay.  As  for 
myself,  I  see  but  one,  which  is  a  dose  of  purgative  flight, 
mixed,  as  it  should  be,  with  two  drachms  of  matrimonium, 
made  up  into  pills.  She  may,  perhaps,  make  some  diffi- 
culty about  taking  this  remedy ;  but  as  you  are  a  clever 
man  in  your  profession,  you  must  induce  her  to  consent  to 
it,  and  make  her  swallow  the  thing  as  best  you  can.  Go 
and  take  a  little  turn  in  the  garden  with  her  to  prepare 
the  humours,  while  I  converse  here  with  her  father ;  but, 
above  all,  lose  not  a  moment.  Apply  the  remedy  quick  1 
apply  the  specific ! 

Scene  VIL — Gironte,  Sganarelle. 

Ger.  What  drugs  are  those  you  have  just  mentioned, 
Sir  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  never  heard  of  them  before. 

Scan.  They  are  drugs  which  are  used  only  in  urgent 
cases. 

Ger.  Did  you  ever  see  such  insolence  as  hers  ? 

Scan.  Daughters  are  a  little  headstrong  at  times. 

Ger.  You  would  not  believe  how  she  is  infatuated  with 
this  L6andre. 

Scan.  The  heat  of  the  blood  produces  those  things  in 
young  people. 

Ger.  As  for  me,  the  moment  I  discovered  the  violence 


scmxi  CL]         THE  PHYSICIAX  DS  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.  29I 

of  this  passion,  I  took  care  to  keep  mj  d^mghtCT  nnder 
lock  and  key. 

Scan.  Yoa  have  acted  wisely. 

Ger.  And  I  have  prereated  the  «KghtFttf^  oommnnica- 
tion  between  them. 

Sgak.  Just  so. 

Ger.  They  woold  have  committed  some  foUy,  if  they 
had  been  permitted  to  see  each  other. 

Sgak.  Undoubtedly. 

Ger.  .\nd  I  think  she  woold  have  been  the  girl  to  nm 
away  with  him. 

Sg.\n.  Yoo  have  argued  very  prudently. 

Ger.  I  was  informed,  that  he  tried  eveiy  means  to  get 
^>eech  of  her. 

Scan.  The  rascal ! 

Ger.  But  he  will  waste  his  time. 

Scan.  Aye  !  Aye  ! 

Ger.  And  I  wUl  effectually  prevent  him  from  seeing 
her. 

Sg.\n.  He  has  no  fool  to  deal  with,  and  yon  know  some 
tricks  of  which  he  is  igiuxant.  One  mast  get  up  very 
eaziy  to  catch  yoa  a^eep. 

ScEiTE  VXIL — ^Lucas,  Gaaunx,  Sgaxareux. 

Lcc.  Odds  bobs !  Sr,  here  b  a  pvetty  to  do.  Your 
dangfater  has  fled  widi  her  Ldandre.  It  was  he  that  plajped 
the  apothecary,  and  this  is  the  physician  who  has  per- 
formed this  nice  operation. 

Ger.  What!  to  murd^  me  in  this  manna-!  Qni<^ 
fetdi  a  magistrate,  and  take  care  that  he  does  not  get 
away.     Ah  villain !  I  will  have  yoa  punished  by  the  law. 

Ixpc  I  am   afraid,    IGster  Doctor,  that  yoa  will  be ' 
haqged.'*    Do  not  stir  a  step,  I  tdl  yoo. 

ScEXE  IX. — Martdts,  Sgasassxxic,  Locas. 

Mart.  (To  Lccas^  Good  giadons  I  what  a  difficnltj 
I  have  had  to  find  ^is  place !  Just  tdl  me  what  Iik  be- 
come of  die  physkian  I  recommended  to  yon  ? 

I  by  Gmaglit  m.  a»ecf  MoBac's 


292  THE  PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  [act  m. 

Luc.  Here  he  is ;  just  going  to  be  hanged. 

Mart.  What !  my  husband  hanged !  Alas,  and  for 
what? 

Luc.  He  has  helped  some  one  to  run  away  with  master's 
daughter. 

Mart.  Alas,  my  dear  husband,  is  it  true  that  you  are 
going  to  be  hanged  ? 

Sgan.  Judge  for  yourself.     Ah  ! 

Mart.  And  must  you  be  made  an  end  of  in  the  presence 
of  such  a  crowd. 

Sgan.  What  am  I  to  do? 

Mart.  If  you  had  only  finished  cutting  our  wood,  I 
should  be  somewhat  consoled. 

Sgan.  Leave  me,  you  break  my  heart. 

Mart.  No,  I  will  remain  to  encourage  you  to  die;  and 
I  will  not  leave  you  until  I  have  seen  you  hanged. 

Sgan.  Ah! 

Scene  X. — Geronte,  Sganarelle,  Martin  e. 

Ger.  {To  Sganarelle).  The  magistrate  will  be  here 
directly,  and  we  shall  put  you  in  a  place  of  safety  where 
they  will  be  answerable  for  you. 

Sgan.  {^On  his  knees,  hat  in  hand).  Alas!  will  not  a 
few  strokes  with  a  cudgel  do  instead  ? 

Ger.  No,  no;  the  law  shall  decide.  But  what  do  I 
see? 

Scene    XL — Geronte,    Li^andre,    Lucinde,  Sgana- 
relle, Lucas,  Martine. 

Lean.  Sir,  I  appear  before  you  as  Leandre,  and  am 
come  to  restore  Lucinde  to  your  authority.  We  intended 
to  run  away,  and  get  married ;  but  this  design  has  given 
way  to  a  more  honorable  proceeding.  I  will  not  presume 
to  steal  away  your  daughter,  and  it  is  from  your  hands 
alone  that  I  will  obtain  her.  I  must  at  the  same  time 
acquaint  you,  that  I  have  just  now  received  some  letters 
informing  me  of  the  death  of  my  uncle,  and  that  he  has 
left  me  heir  to  all  his  property. 

Ger.  Really,  Sir,  your  virtue  is  worthy  of  my  utmost 
consideration,  and  I  give  you  my  daughter  with  the  great- 
est pleasure  in  the  world. 


SCBNKXI.]         THE   PHYSICIAN   IN  SPITE  OF   HIMSELF.  293 

Scan.  (Aside).  The  physician  has  had  a  narrow  escape ! 

Mart.  Since  you  are  not  going  to  be  hanged,  you  may 
thank  me  for  being  a  physician  ;  for  I  have  procured  you 
this  honour. 

Scan.  Yes,  it  is  you  who  procured  me,  I  do  not  know 
how  many  thwacks  with  a  cudgel. 

Lean.  (To  Sganarelle).  The  result  has  proved  too 
happy  to  harbour  any  resentment. 

Sgan.  Be  it  so.  ( To  Martine).  I  forgive  you  the  blows 
on  account  of  the  dignity  to  which  you  have  elevated  me ; 
but  prepare  yourself  henceforth  to  behave  with  great  re- 
spect towards  a  man  of  my  consequence;  and  consider 
that  the  anger  of  a  physician  is  more  to  be  dreaded  than 
people  imagine. 


MELICERTR 

COMEDIE  PASTORALE  H^ROIQUE. 


MELICERTE. 

A  HEROIC   PASTORAL  IN  TWO  ACTS. 

{THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 

December  2nd,  1666. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


On  the  1st  of  December,  1666,  the  troupe  of  Moli^re  set  out  for  Saint- 
Germain-en-Laye,  where  it  was  employed,  as  well  as  the  troupe  of  the 
hotel  de  Bourgogne,  and  the  Italian  and  Spanish  comedians,  in  the  Ballet 
des  Muses,  which  inaugurated  the  renewal  of  the  court-festivals,  inter- 
rupted for  nearly  a  year  through  the  death  of  the  Queen-mother.  The 
celebrated  musician,  Lulli,  composed  the  music  for  the  ballet ;  whilst  the 
King,  Madame,!  Mesdemoiselles  de  la  Valli^re  and  de  la  Mothe,  Mesdames 
de  Montespan  and  de  Ludre — four  ladies  whom  the  King  delighted 
to  honour — and  the  principal  personages  of  the  court,  took  an  active  part 
in  the  entries, ^  the  dancing,  and  the  mythological  sjjorts. 

Moli^re  was  entrusted  with  the  task  of  writing  a  comedy  for  these 
entertainments,  and  he  chose  for  his  subject  a  similar  one  to  the  history 
of'Florizel  and  Perdita,  in  Shakespeare's  Winter's  Tale.  It  is  said  that 
Moli^re  owed  his  episode  of  Melicerte  to  that  part  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Scudery's  novel  Cyrus,  which  relates  the  love-scenes  between  S^sostris 
and  Timar^te,  a  young  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  who  became  enam- 
oured of  each  other,  and  are  afterwards  proved  to  be  of  noble  origin. 
But  the  charm  of  his  writing,  the  exquisite  delicacy  of  the  sentiment,  and 
the  freshness  of  the  pastoral  scenes,  cause  us  to  regret  that  Molifere  wrote 
only  the  two  first  acts  of  this  play,  and  never  finished  it.  Those  who 
wish  to  study  Moli^re,  and  not  to  leave  any  of  his  writings  neglected, 
will  discover  in  some  of  his  most  slighted  plays,  such  as  Don  Garcia  of 
Navarre,  The  Princess  of  Elis,  Melicerte,  The  Magnificent  Lovers,  an 
under-current  of  sentimentality,  sometimes  a  little  too  courtly,  at  other 
times  of  rather  too  pastoral  and  lackadaisical  a  flavour,  but  always  bear- 
ing the  impress  of  genuine,  real,  heartfelt  emotion,  worthy  of  being 
carefully  observed,  as  perhaps  a  new  trait  in  Moli^re's  character, 

Melicerte  was  acted  on  the  2d  of  December,  1666,  and  young  Michel 
Boiron,  better  known  as  Baron,  played  in  it  the  chief  character  of  Myrtil. 
Tradition  states,  that,  during  the  rehearsals,  the  wife  of  Moli&re,  jealous 
of  the  influence  of  the  young  actor — for  he  was  only  thirteen  years  old — 
over  the  heart  of  her  husband,  boxed  Baron's  ears ;  at  which  the  latter 

>  See  Vol.  I.,  page  340,  note.i.  'See  Vol.  I.,  page  Jtxx.,  note  12. 


298  MfeLICERTE. 

was  so  offended  that  he  refused  to  play.  The  matter  was  arranged  with 
great  difficulty ;  but  immediately  after  Melicerte  had  been  performed, 
Baron  asked  Louis  XlV.s  permission  to  leave  Moli^re's  troupe,  and  for 
three  years  remained  in  the  provinces.  The  scandalous  gossip  of  those 
times  says  that  Mad.  Moli^re's  hatred  of  Baron  changed  afterwards  into  a 
warmer  sentiment,  which  he  returned. 

This  play  was  not  published  during  Moli^re's  lifetime,  but  sixteen  years 
after  his  death  by  La  Grange  and  Vinot.  (See  Introductory  Notice  to 
Tlie  Impromptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  L).  In  1699,  seventeen  years  after  it 
had  been  published,  Gu^rin,  a  son  of  the  husband  of  Moli^re's  widow, 
and  who  professed  a  great  admiration  for  Moli^re,  altered  Melicerte  partly, 
changed  the  metre  into  an  irregular  one,  made  Myrtil  give  to  Melicerte  a 
nosegay  instead  of  a  bird,  and  added  an  entire  third  act.  But  in  spite  of 
the  music  of  Lalande  and  the  protection  of  the  Princess  of  Conti,  the 
piece  had  no  success. 

Molifere  and  his  troupe  remained  at  Saint  Germain-en-Laye  from  the 
ist  of  December,  1666,  until  the  2Sth  of  February,  1667,  and  received 
from  the  King,  for  the  time  spent  in  his  pleasures,  two  years  of  their 
pension.'  During  that  time,  the  dramatist  produced  Melicerte,  the 
Pastorale  Cbmique  and  The  Sicilian.  The  Ballet  des  Muses  was  arranged 
by  Benserade,  the  official  manager  of  nearly  all  the  courtly  entertain- 
ments, who  wrote  also  the  verses  or  recits:  *  but  as  this  Ballet  lasted  for 
nearly  three  months,^it  must  have  been  often  changed,  for  variety  is  one  of 
the  necessities  of  courtly  amusements.  It  opened  with  Mnemosyne,  the 
goddess  of  memory,  who,  remembering  the  great  heroes  of  antiquity, 
vrisned  to  see  the  august  prince  who  had  such  a  glorious  reputation,  and 
who  caused  all  arts  to  flourish  in  his  dominions.  She  was  accompanied 
by  the  nine  Muses  who  sang,  and  by  seven  arts.  Urania,  and  seven 
planets,  represented  by  dancers  in  brilliant  dresses,  formed  the  first  entry. 
The  second  entry  was  Pyramus  and  Thisbe ;  Pyramus  was  acted  by  the 
Count  of  Armagnac,  generally  called  Monsieur  le  Grand,  because  he  was 
"  Grand  fecuyer '■  (Master  of  the  horse),  and  Thisbe  by  the  Marquis  de 
Mirepoix,  who  we  sincerely  trust  played  better  than  Nick  Bottom,  the 
weaver,  and  Francis  Flute,  the  bellows- mender.  The  third  entry  was 
Thalia  and  Melicerte.^  represented  by  Moliere  and  his  troupe,  "  of  all  our 
poets,"  says  the  official  description,  "  the  one  who,  in  this  kind  of  writing, 
may  with  the  greatest  justice  be  compared  to  the  ancients."  The  fourth 
entry  was  in  honour  of  Euterpe,  a  pastoral  muse  ;  eight  shepherds  and 
eight  shepherdesses  sang  some  verses  in  praise  of  the  power  of  Love , 
four  other  shepherds  and  four  other  shepherdesses  danced,  whilst  the  six- 
teen were  singing.  Amongst  the  dancers  were  Louis  XIV.  and  the  Mar- 
quis de  Villeroi,  and  amongst  the  danseuses  Madame,  Madame  de  Mon- 
tespan.  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valli^re  and  Mademoiselle  de  Toussi.  The 
fifth  entry,  in  honour  of  Qio,  the  muse  of  history,  was  a  ballet  represent- 
ing the  battle  between  Alexander  and  Porus.  I  cannot  imagine  that  -.he 
battle  was  well  represented ;    for  the  official  description  gives  only  the 

s  The  munificence  displayed  by  Louis  XIV.  to  Moliere  and  his  troupe  has  been 
too  much  extolled.  Since  the  year  1665,  they  received  6,000  livres,  and  during  the 
last  two  years  of  Moliere's  life,  7,000  livres;  but  the  troupe  of  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne 
received  12,000  livres,  and  the  Italian  troupe  15,000  livres  yearly. 

<See  Vol.  1.,  page  xxx.,  note  12. 

6  There  is  a  little  doubt  whether  Melicerte  or  the  Pastorale  Comique  was  repre- 
sented in  the  third  entry ;  most  probably  the  former. 


M^LICERTE.  299 

names  of  five  Greeks  and  the  same  number  of  Indians,  while  each  army 
has  one  drummer  and  two  flute  players.  The  sixth  entry  in  honour  of  Cal- 
liope, "  the  mother  of  fine  verses,''  was  a  little  comedy,  called  The  Poets. 
acted  by  the  troupe  of  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne,  when  a  Spanish  Masca-, 
rade  was  represented,  in  which  the  King  and  several  noblemen,  as  well  as 
Madame,  Madame  de  Montespan,  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valli^re,  and 
several  noble  ladies,  danced.  There  were  also  four  Spaniards  who  played 
on  the  harp  and  guitar,  the  same  number  who  sang,  and  four  Spanish 
ladies  who  sang  also  ;  and  if  these  Spanish  actors  were — as  is  most  likely 
—the  comedians  patronised  by  the  Queen  Maria  Theresa,  herself  a  Span- 
ish princess,  and  on  the  point  of  giving  birth  to  a  child,^  it  is,  to  say  the 
least  of  it,  singular,  that  they  should  have  sung  in  her  presence,  as  well  as 
in  that  of  the  King's  favourites,  verses  which  say,  "  the  most  charming 
youth,  without  love,  is  nothing ;  some  little  tenderness  increases  all 
charms.  None  can  refrain  from  the  power  of  love,  but  if  my  heart  is 
tender,  it  is  not  so  for  you."  In  the  sevenfh  entry,  Orpheus,  sung  by  Lulli, 
was  represented  as  bewailing  and  feeling  the  influence  of  love  ;  a  nymph 
and  eight  Thracians  are  also  there.  The  eighth  entry  represented  Erato, 
''  who,  above  all  others,  is  invoked  in  love,"  and  six  lovers  taken  from  the 
most  famous  novels  ;  amongst  others  Louis  XIV.,  came  forward  as  Cyrus. 
The  ninth  entry  was  in  honour  of  Polyhymnia,  "  whose  power  extends 
over  eloquence  and  dialectics  ;  "  three  Greek  and  three  Roman  orators 
are  ridiculed  by  the  same  number  of  French  and  Italian  actors.  The 
teath  entry  was  in  honour  of  Terpsichore,  "  to  whom  the  invention  of 
rustic  song  and  dance  is  attributed  ;  "  four  Fauns  and  four  savage  women 
daace,  and  a  Satyr  sings  verses,  of  course  in  praise  of  Love.  The 
eleventh  entry  consisted  of  the  nine  Muses  and  the  nine  daughters  of 
Pierro  vicing  with  each  other  in  dancing,  and  all  represented  by  noble 
ladies,  amongst  whom  were  Madame,  Mademoiselle  de  La  Valli^re, 
Madame  de  Ludre,  and  Madame  de  Montespan.  The  twelfth  entry  was 
composed  of  three  nymphs,  who  were  umpires,  of  which  the  King  was  one. 
The  last  entry  consisted  of  the  Pierides  resisting,  and  Monsieur  Le  Grand, 
as  Jupiter,  changing  them  into  birds. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  Grand  Monarque  danced  several  times  himself 
in  the  Ballet  des  Muses ;  he  always  liked  dancing,  and  however  much 
his  early  education  may  have  been  neglected,  upon  that  point  it  left 
nothing  to  be  desired.  But  to  judge  rightly  how  much  dancing  was  es- 
teemed at  that  time,  we  have  but  to  look  at  what  was  paid  to  the  King's 
different  masters  in  1660  -he  was  then  twenty-three  years  old.  We  find 
that  the  yearly  salary  of  his  dancing  master  was  2000  livres,  of  his  draw- 
ing master  1500  livres,  and  of  his  writing  master  300  livres,  the  same,  in 
fact,  as  that  of  the  scullions  of  the  royal  kitchen — perhaps  a  just  retribu- 
tion for  neglect,  for  Louis  XIV.,  wrote  a  royally  bad  hand  all  his  lifetime, 
but  was  considered  a  first-rate  dancer.  He  instituted  in  1661,  an  Acade- 
mle  royale  de  danse,  formed  of  thirteen  dancing  masters,  who  "  shall  have 
to  remedy  the  disorders  and  confusion  which  the  late  wars  have  intro- 
duced in  the  aforesaid  art,''  says  the  official  preamble.  This  Academy 
enjoyed  the  same  privileges  as  the  Academie  de  peinture  et  de  sculpture  ; 
and  probably  the  dancing  master  of  The  Citizen  who  apes  the  Nobleman, 
was  one  of  its  members.  The  official  Gazette  always  gave  a  minute  and 
detailed  report  of  the  most  trifling  mythological  or  allegorical  ballet 
danced  at  court,  but  never  an  analysis  of  any  masterpiece  of  the  French 

•  This  child,  a  girl,  was  born  on  the  2d  of  January,  1667. 


300  M^LICERTE. 

Stage.    It  continued  to  do  this,  even  after  the  King  no  longer  danced 
himself.'^ 

T  It  is  generally  stated  that  Louis  XIV.  never  danced  more  in  a  ballet,  after 
Racine  had  put  the  following  words  in  the  mouth  of  Burrhus  in  the  tragedy  of 
Britannicus,  represented  during  the  latter  part  of  the  year  i66g.  We  see,  how- 
ever, that  the  King,  according  to  the  Gazette,  represented  Apollo  and  Neptune  in 
a  ballet,  on  the  9th  of  February,  1670 ;  but  after  that  time,  he  never  more  appeared 
in  public.    The  lines  are  as  follows  : — 

"  His  greatest  merit  and  his  rarest  virtue. 
Is  skilfully  to  guide  his  chariot's  course. 
To  vie  with  omers  for  unworthy  prizes. 
And  to  become  a  public  sight  in  Rome." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

Myrtil,  in  love  with  Melicerte. 

AcANTHE,  in  love  with  Daphne. 

Tyrene,  in  love  with  Eroxene. 

Lycarsis,  herdsman,  supposed  father  to  Myrtil.^ 

NiCANDRE,  shepherd. 

MopsE,  shepherd f  supposed  uncle  to  Melicerte* 

Melicerte,  shepherdess. 

DAPHNfi,  shepherdess. 

Eroxene,  shepherdess. 

Corinne,  confidante  of  MHicerte. 

Scene. — Thessaly,  in  the  Valley  of  Tempe. 
8  This  part  was  played  by  MoliSre  himself. 


MELICERTE. 

{Mi:LICERTE\^ 


ACT  I. 

Scene  I. — Daphne:,  ^^rox^ne,  Acanthe,  TvRiNE. 

AcAN.  Ah !  charming  Daphn6  ! 
Tyr.  Too  lovely  Erox^ne ! 
Daph.   Leave  me,  Acanthe. 
Erox.  Do  not  follow  me  Tyrone. 
AcAN.  {To  Daphne).  Why  do  you  drive  me  away? 
Tyr.  {To  Eroxene).   Why  do  you  fly  from  me? 
Daph.  (  To  Acanthe).  You  please  me  most  when  far  away. 
Erox.   {To  Tyrene).   I  love  to  be  where  you  are  not. 
AcAN.  Why  not  cease  this  killing  severity? 
Tyr.  Why  not  cease  to  be  so  cruel? 
Daph.  Why  not  cease  your  useless  protestations? 
Erox.  Why  not  cease  to  bore  me  ? 
AcAN.  I  die  with  grief,  unless  you  pity  them. 
Tyr.  Unless  you  succour  me,  my  death  is  but  too  sure. 
Daph.  Unless  you  go,  I  leave  this  place. 
Erox.  If  you  remain,  I  say  good-bye. 
AcAN.  Well,  be  it  so  !  to  please  you  I  will  go. 
Tyr.  When  I  am  gone,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  pleased. 
AcAN.  Generous  Eroxene,  vouchsafe,  for  pity's  sake,  to 
say  a  word  or  two  to  her  in  favour  of  my  passion. 

303 


304  MfeLICERTE.  flcr  i. 

Tyr.  Obliging  Daphn6,  speak  to  this  inhuman  creature, 
and  learn  whence  proceeds  so  much  hatred  towards  me. 

Scene   II. — Daphne,  EROxfeNE. 

Erox.  Acanthe  has  some  merit,  and  loves  you  dearly. 
How  is  it  that  you  treat  him  so  harshly? 

Daph.  Tyrene  has  much  worth,  and  pines  for  your  love. 
Whence  comes  it  that,  without  pity,  you  behold  him 
shedding  tears? 

Erox.  Since  I  put  the  question  first,  it  is  but  fair  that 
you  should  answer  before  me. 

Daph.  All  Acanthe' s  attentions  make  no  impression  on 
me,  because  I  care  for  some  one  else. 

Erox.  I  treat  Tyrene  with  harshness,  because  another 
is  master  of  my  heart. 

Daph.  May  I  know  this  choice  which  you  conceal  ? 

Erox.  Yes,  if  you  tell  me  this  secret  of  yours. 

Daph.  I  can  easily  satisfy  your  wish  without  telling  you 
the  name  of  him  I  love.  I  have  an  admirable  portrait  of 
him  in  my  pocket,  the  work  of  Atis,  that  inimitable  painter, 
so  like  him  in  every  feature,  that  I  am  sure  you  will  re- 
cognise him  at  a  glance. 

Erox.  I  can  satisfy  you  by  the  same  means,  and  repay 
your  secret  in  the  like  coin.  I  also  have  a  lovely  portrait 
by  this  famous  painter,  of  the  object  of  my  affections,  so 
like  him  in  every  feature,  and  in  his  exceeding  grace,  that 
you  will  name  him  at  first  sight. 

Daph.  The  case  which  the  painter  has  had  made  for  me 
is  exactly  like  yours. 

Erox.  It  is  true.  They  are  exactly  alike,  and  certainly 
Atis  must  have  had  them  made  together. 

Daph.  Let  us  now,  by  means  of  these  few  tints,  show 
each  other  the  secret  of  our  hearts. 

Erox.  Let  us  see  who  will  soonest  understand  this 
language,  and  which  work  speaks  most  plainly. 

Daph.  This  is  a  droll  mistake,  and  you  have  made  a 
nice  blunder:  instead  of  your  portrait,  you  have  given 
me  back  my  own. 

Erox.  Indeed  I  have ;  I  do  not  know  how  I  came  to 
do  it. 

Daph,  Give  it  me.     It  is  because  you  were  dreaming. 


SCBNBll.]  MfeLICERTE.  305 

Erox.  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  I  believe  we  are 
joking  with  each  other.  You  have  made  the  same  blun- 
der as  I  have  with  the  portraits. 

Daph.  This  is  certainly  enough  to  make  one  laugh. 
Give  it  me  back  again. 

Erox.  (^Placing  the  two  portraits  side  by  side').  This  is 
the  true  way  not  to  make  a  blunder. 

Daph.  Is  this  an  illusion  of  my  preoccupied  senses? 

Erox.  Is  my  mind  affecting  my  eyes? 

Daph.  Myrtil  is  shown  to  me  in  this  work. 

Erox.  Of  Myrtil's  features  I  see  the  image. 

Daph.  It  is  young  Myrtil  who  has  kindled  my  flame. 

Erox.  It  is  to  young  Myrtil  that  all  my  wishes  tend. 

Daph.  I  came  to-day  to  entreat  you  to  tell  him  how  his 
merits  interest  me  in  his  lot. 

Erox.  I  came  to  ask  you  to  assist  me  in  my  affections ; 
to  help  me  to  gain  his  heart. 

Daph.  Is  this  affection  with  which  he  inspires  you  so 
powerful  ? 

Erox.  Is  your  love  for  him  so  violent  ? 

Daph.  He  could  inflame  the  coldest  heart;  and  his 
budding  charms  must  delight  everyone. 

Erox.  Not  a  nymph,  but  would  esteem  herself  happy 
in  loving  him.  Diana  herself  might  without  shame  be 
enamoured  of  him. 

Daph.  Nothing  but  his  bright  presence  charms  me 
now-a-days ;  and  had  I  a  hundred  hearts,  they  should  all 
be  his. 

Erox.  He  blots  every  other  sight  from  my  eyes ;  and 
had  I  a  sceptre  he  should  be  master  of  it. 

Daph.  It  would  be  useless,  then,  to  try  to  tear  this  love 
from  our  breasts.  Our  hearts  are  too  steadfast  in  their 
wishes.  Only  let  us  try,  if  possible,  to  remain  friends; 
and  since  we  both  have  formed  the  same  designs  for  the 
same  youth,  let  us  act  with  the  utmost  candour  in  this 
matter,  and  not  take  a  mean  advantage  of  each  other. 
Let  us  hasten  together  to  Lycarsis,  and  confide  to  him  our 
tender  feelings  for  his  son. 

Erox.  I  can  hardly  conceive,  so  great  is  my  surprise, 
how  such  a  son  could  spring  from  such  a  father.  His 
shape,  his  mien,  his  words,  his  eyes,  all  make  you  believe 

VOL.  II.  u 


3o6  MELICERTE.  [act  i. 

that  the  blood  of  the  gods  runs  in  his  veins.  But  I  con- 
sent, let  us  go  and  find  the  father.  Let  us  open  our  hearts 
to  him,  and  agree  that  Myrtil  shall  decide  by  his  own 
choice  afterwards  this  contest  of  our  desires. 

Daph.  Be  it  so.  I  perceive  Lycarsis  with  Mopse  and 
Nicandre.  They  will  leave  him  perhaps.  Let  us  hide 
ourselves  till  they  do. 

Scene  IIL — Lycarsis,  Mopse,  Nicandre. 

Nic.  (To  Lycarsis).     Tell  us  your  news? 

Lyc.  Ah !  how  you  press  me  !  It  does  not  do  to  tell 
these  things  as  you  imagine. 

Mop.  What  silly  ceremonies,  and  what  tomfoolery ! 
Menalcus  does  not  make  more  to  sing. 

Lyc.  Amongst  the  busy-bodies  in  political  matters,  the 
divulging  of  news  generally  causes  a  great  stir.  I  wish  to 
be  considered  as  rather  a  man  of  importance,  and  enjoy 
your  impatience  a  little  longer. 

Nic.  Do  you  wish  to  tire  us  both  by  your  delay  ? 

Mop.  Do  you  take  pleasure  in  making  yourself  a  bore  ? 

Nic.   Prithee,  speak  out,  and  stop  these  grimaces. 

Lyc.  Ask  me  both  in  a  decent  manner,  and  tell  me 
what  you  will  give  me  if  I  do  as  you  wish. 

Mop.  Plague  take  the  fool !  Let  us  leave  him,  Nicandre. 
He  is  more  anxious  to  tell  than  we  are  to  hear.  His  news 
weighs  him  down,  he  wishes  to  get  rid  of  it,  and  we  will 
just  vex  him  by  not  listening. 

Lyc.  Eh! 

Nic.  It  serves  you  right  for  your  ado. 

Lyc.  I  will  tell  it  you,  listen. 

Mop.  Not  at  all. 

Lyc.  What  1  you  do  not  wish  to  hear  me  ? 

Nic.  No. 

Lyc.  Very  well.  I  will  not  say  a  word,  and  you  shall 
know  nothing. 

Mop.  All  right. 

Lyc.  You  shall  not  know,  then,  that  the  King  has  come 
to  honour  Tempe  with  his  presence  in  the  most  magnifi- 
cent style ;  and  that  he  made  his  entry  into  Larissa  yes- 
terday afternoon  ;  and  that  I  saw  him  there  comfortably 
installed  with  the  whole  Court ;  that  these  woods  will  be 


SCKNK  ivj  M^LICERTE.  307 

rejoiced  to-day  at  the  sight  of  him  j  and  that  there  are  a 
great  many  rumours  abroad  in  connection  with  his  visit.* 

Nic.  We  do  not  wish  to  know  anything, 

Lyc.  I  have  seen  a  hundred  things  there,  delightful  to 
behold.  Nothing  but  great  lords,  glittering  and  brilliant 
from  head  to  foot,  as  if  dressed  for  a  holiday ;  they 
astonish  one's  eyes ;  and  are  more  dazzling  than  our 
meadows  at  spring-time  with  all  their  flowers.  As  for  the 
prince  himself,  he  is  easily  known  among  all  the  rest  j  he 
looks  like  a  grand  monarch  a  mile  ofiF.^°  There  is  a  some- 
thing about  him  that  makes  you  tell  at  once  that  he  is  a 
master  King.  He  performs  his  part  with  matchless  grace ; 
and  to  say  the  truth,  it  suits  him  admirably.  You  would 
hardly  believe  how  every  one  at  court  eagerly  watches  for 
a  glance  ;  there  reigns  around  him  a  pleasant  confusion ; 
and  one  would  think  it  a  swarm  of  brilliant  insects  follow- 
ing everywhere  a  sweet  honeycomb.  In  short,  I  have 
seen  nothing  so  lovely  under  the  canopy  of  Heaven  ;  and 
our  much  cherished  feast  of  Pan  is  a  mere  piece  of  trash 
compared  with  this  spectacle.  Since  you  seem  so  proud, 
I  keep  my  news  to  myself,  and  shall  tell  nothing. 

Mop.  And  we  do  not  in  the  least  wish  to  hear  you. 

Lyc.  Go  to  the  right  about. 

Mop.  Go  and  hang  yourself 

Scene  IV. — jfcROXENE,  Daphnb:,  Lycarsis. 

Lyc.  (^Believing  himself  alone).  That  .is  the  way  to 
punish  people  when  they  are  foolish  and  impertinent. 

Daph.  Heaven  always  preserve  your  flock,  shepherd  ! 

Erox.  May  Ceres  always  keep  your  barns  full  of  corn. 

Lyc.  And  may  the  great  Pan  give  to  each  of  you  a  hus- 
band, who  will  love  you  much  and  be  worthy  of  you ! 

Daph.  Ah,  Lycarsis  !  our  wishes  tend  to  the  same  end. 

*  MoliSre  has  also  employed  in  George  Dandin  a  talkative  servant 
named  Lubin,  who  tells  his  secret,  after  having  said  that  his  hearer 
should  know  nothing, 

1°  This  was  intended  as  a  compliment  to  Louis  XIV.  The  original  has 
Et  d'une  stade  loin  il  sent  son  grand  monarque.  Of  course,  Moli^re  did 
not  intend  to  insinuate  anything :  yet  it  is  rather  funny  that  he  should  use 
the  words  il  sent,  "he  smells,"  considering  the  uncleanly  personal  habits 
of  Louis  XIV,,  and  his  intense  dislike  to  ablutions,  as  mentioned  by  Saint 
Simon  in  his  Memoires, 


308  MELICERTE.  [acti. 

Erox.  Both  our  hearts  sigh  for  the  same  object. 

Daph.  And  that  boy  Cupid,  the  cause  of  all  our  lan- 
guor, has  borrowed  from  you  the  darts  with  which  he 
wounds  our  hearts. 

Erox.  And  we  have  come  here  to  seek  your  coun- 
tenance, and  to  see  which  of  us  two  shall  have  the 
preference. 

Lyc.  Nymphs.  .    .    . 

Daph.  For  this  alone  we  sigh. 

Lyc.  I  am.  .    .    . 

Erox.  For  this  happiness  only  we  wish. 

Daph.  We  express  our  thoughts  somewhat  freely. 

Lyc.  Why  so  ? 

Erox.  Good  breeding  seems  somewhat  outraged. 

Lyc.  Not  at  all ! 

Daph.  But  when  the  heart  is  consumed  with  a  noble 
flame,  one  may,  without  any  shame,  make  a  candid  avowal 
of  it. 

Lyc.  I.  .   .   . 

Erox.  We  may  be  allowed  this  freedom,  and  the  beauty 
of  our  hearts'  choice  warrants  it. 

Lyc.  You  shock  my  modesty  by  flattering  me  thus. 

Erox.  No,  no ;  affect  no  modesty  in  this  case. 

Daph.  In  short,  all  our  happiness  is  in  your  keeping. 

Erox.  Our  only  hope  depends  on  you. 

Daph.  Shall  we  find  any  difficulty  in  you  ? 

Lyc.  Ah! 

Erox.  Tell  me,  shall  our  wishes  be  rejected  ? 

Lyc.  No.  Heaven  has  given  me  no  cruel  heart.  I  take 
after  my  late  wife ;  and  I  feel,  like  her,  a  great  sympathy 
with  the  desires  of  others.  And  I  am  not  the  man  to 
show  much  pride." 

Daph.  Then  grant  us  Myrtil  to  our  ardent  love. 

Erox.  And  allow  his  choice  to  adjust  our  quarrel. 

Lyc.  Myrtil? 

Daph.  Yes,  it  is  Myrtil  whom  we  desire  of  you. 

Erox.  Of  whom  did  you  think  we  were  speaking? 

11  Auger,  one  of  the  commentators  of  Moli^re,  thinks  that  the  wife  of 
Lycarsis  was  mentioned  here  on  purpose,  because  it  was  probably  the  in- 
tention of  Moli^re  afterwards  to  explain  how  Myrtil  had  passed  so  long 
for  Lycarsis'  son. 


8CKNK IV.]  M^LICERTE.  309 

Lyc.  I  do  not  know ;  but  Myrtil  is  not  of  an  age  to 
take  the  yoke  of  matrimony  upon  himself. 

Daph.  His  growing  merit  may  strike  other  eyes ;  and 
we  wish  to  secure  so  precious  a  possession,  to  forestall 
others,  and  to  brave  fortune  under  the  firm  ties  of  a  com- 
mon bond. 

Erox.  As  by  his  wit  and  other  brilliant  qualities,  he  is 
out  of  the  common  order,  and  outstrips  time ;  so  shall  our 
affection  for  him  do  the  same,  and  regulate  all  his  wishes 
according  to  his  exceeding  merit. 

Lyc.  It  is  true  that  for  his  age  he  sometimes  surprises 
me;  and  that  this  Athenian,  who  stayed  with  me  for 
twenty  months,  finding  him  so  handsome,  took  a  fancy  to 
fill  his  mind  with  his  philosophy.  He  has  made  him  so 
clever  upon  certain  subjects,  that,  great  as  I  am,  he  often 
puzzles  me.  But,  after  all,  he  is  still  a  child,  and  his 
knowledge  is  mixed  with  a  great  deal  of  innocence. 

Daph.  He  is  not  such  a  child  but  that  I,  who  see  him 
every  day,  believe  him  somewhat  love-sick  already ;  and 
I  have  noticed  many  a  thing  that  shows  that  he  is  after 
young  Mdlicerte. 

Erox.  They  may  be  in  love  with  each  other,  and  I  can 
see.  .    .  . 

Lyc.  Nonsense.  As  for  her,  I  do  not  say,  she  is  two 
years  older  than  he,  and  two  years  with  her  sex  means  a 
great  deal.  But  as  for  him,  he  dreams  of  nothing  but 
play,  I  think,  and  of  his  little  vanities  of  being  dressed 
like  the  shepherds  of  lofty  rank. 

Daph.  In  short,  we  wish,  by  the  marriage  tie  to  attack 
his  fortune  to  ours. 

Erox.  We  are  both  equally  eager  to  assure  ourselves 
before-hand  of  the  mastery  of  his  heart. 

Lyc.  I  feel  myself  more  honoured  than  you  would  think. 
I  am  but  a  poor  herdsman ;  and  it  is  certainly  too  much 
glory  that  two  nymphs  of  the  highest  rank  in  the  land 
should  contend  for  making  my  son  their  husband.  Since 
he  pleases  you  so  much,  let  the  matter  be  arranged  in  this 
way.  I  consent  that  his  cTioice  shall  adjust  your  dispute  ; 
and  she,  whom  his  decree  shall  set  aside,  may  marry  me 
in  compensation,  if  she  likes.  At  all  events,  it  is  the  same 
blood,  and  almost  the  same  thing.    But  here  he  is.   Allow 


3IO  m6lICERTE.  [act  I. 

me  to  prepare  him  a  little.     He  has  some  sparrow  newly 
caught :  and  this  is  nearly  all  his  love  and  attachment. 

Scene  V. — l^ROxfeNE,  Daphne:,  and  Lycarsis  {at  the  fur- 
ther end  of  the  stage),  Myrtil. 

Myr.  (Believing  himself  alone,  carrying  a  sparrow  in  a 
cage).  Innocent  little  bird,  that  thus,  before  me,  beat 
your  wings  so  violently  against  your  prison  walls,  bewail 
not  your  loss  of  freedom.  Yours  is  a  glorious  fate.  I  have 
caught  you  for  Mdlicerte.  She  will  kiss  you,  and  take  you 
in  her  hands,  and  grant  you  the  favour  of  nestling  in  her 
bosom.  Can  there  be  a  sweeter  and  happier  lot  ?  Oh, 
happy  little  sparrow,  where  is  the  King  that  would  not 
change  places  with  you? 

Lyc.  a  word  with  you,  Myrtil.  Leave  these  playthings 
alone.  It  is  a  question  of  something  else  than  sparrows. 
These  two  nymphs,  Myrtil,  lay  claim  to  you  at  the  same 
time,  and  young  as  you  are,  desire  you  for  their  husband. 
I  am  to  secure  you  to  them  by  marriage ;  and  they  wish 
you  to  choose  one  of  them. 

Myr.  These  nymphs  ? 

Lyc.  Yes.  Of  the  two  you  must  select  one.  Look  at 
the  happiness  in  store  for  you,  and  bless  your  good  for- 
tune. 

Myr.  Can  this  proffered  choice  be  deemed  happiness, 
if  my  heart  does  not  in  the  least  wish  for  it? 

Lyc.  At  least,  acknowledge  it;  and  respond  properly, 
and  without  confusion,  to  the  honour  intended  for  you. 

Erox-  Behold,  Myrtil,  notwithstanding  the  pride  which 
reigns  amongst  us,  two  nymphs  who  offer  themselves  to 
you.  The  marvellous  promise  of  your  worth  reverses  the 
order  of  things  in  this  case. 

Daph.  We  leave  you,  Myrtil,  as  the  best  judge,  in  this 
matter,  to  consult  your  own  eyes  and  heart:  nor  will  we 
influence  your  choice  by  a  flowery  description  of  our  own 
perfections. 

Myr.  You  intend  me  an  honour  the  greatness  of  which 
dazzles  me ;  but  I  confess  that  this  honour  is  too  great  for 
me.  I  must  oppose  your  exceeding  goodness ;  I  am  of  too 
little  worth  to  deserve  such  fortune  ;   and  however  great 


SCKNB  v.l  M^LICERTE.  3!  i 

its  attractions  might  be,  I  should  be  sorry  that,  for  my 
sake,  you  should  be  blamed  for  having  chosen  beneath 
you. 

Erox.  Comply  with  our  wishes  whatever  may  be  said 
of  it,  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  with  the  care  of  our 
glory. 

Daph.  No,  do  not  think  so  humbly  of  yourself,  and 
leave  us  to  be  the  judges  of  your  deserts. 

Myr.  Even  the  proffered  choice  opposes  itself  to  your 
expectations,  and  alone  would  prevent  my  heart  from  sat- 
isfying you.  How  am  I  to  choose  between  two  great 
beauties,  equal  in  birth  and  rare  perfections?  To  reject 
either  would  be  a  terrible  crime,  and  it  is  much  more  rea- 
sonable to  choose  neither. 

Erox.  But  in  refusing  to  comply  with  our  desires,  in- 
stead of  one,  you  offend  two,  Myrtil. 

Daph.  Since  we  are  willing  to  abide  by  your  decision, 
you  cannot  defend  yourself  with  these  reasons. 

Mvr.  Well  then  !  if  these  reasons  do  not  satisfy  you, 
this  one  will :  I  love  other  charms,  and  I  feel  full  well, 
that  a  heart,  which  a  beautiful  object  engrosses,  is  indif- 
ferent and  deaf  to  all  other  advantages. 

Lyc.  What  now  !  What  means  all  this  ?  Who  could 
have  thought  it  ?     And  do  you  know,  boy,  what  love  is  ? 

Myr.  Without  knowing  it  myself,  my  heart  does. 

Lyc.  But  this  love  displeases  me,  and  is  not  wanted. 

Myr.  If  it  displeases  you,  you  ought  not  to  have  given 
me  such  a  tender  and  sensitive  heart. 

Lyc.  But  this  heart  that  I  have  given  you  owes  me  obe- 
dience. 

Myr.  Yes,  when  it  is  in  its  power  to  obey. 

Lyc.  But  it  ought  not  to  love  without  my  leave. 

Myr.  Why  did  you  not  hinder  it,  then,  from  being 
charmed  ? 

Lyc.  Well !  I  forbid  you  to  let  this  continue. 

Myr.  I  am  afraid  your  prohibition  comes  too  late. 

Lyc.  What !  has  not  a  father  superior  rights  ? 

Myr.  Even  the  much  greater  gods  cannot  control  our 
hearts. 

Lyc.  The  gods  .  .  .  Peace,  little  fool.  This  philosophy 
makes  me  .    .    . 


312  MELICERTE.  [act  ii. 

Daph.   Do  not  be  angry,  pray. 

Lyc  No  :  he  shall  choose  one  of  you,  or  I  will  whip 
him  before  your  faces.  Ha,  ha,  I  will  let  you  know  that  I 
am  your  father. 

Daph.  Pray,  let  us  manage  matters  without  anger. 

Erox.  May  we  inquire  of  you,  Myrtil,  the  name  of  the 
charming  object  whose  beauty  has  made  you  her  swain? 

Myr.  Mdicerte,  Madam.  She  may  make  others  love 
her. 

Erox.  Do  you  compare  her  attractions  to  ours,  Myrtil  ? 

Daph.  The  choice  between  her  and  us  is  unequal  enough. 

Myr.  Nymphs,  in  Heaven's  name,  do  not  say  any  ill  of 
her.  Pray  consider  that  I  love  her,  and  do  not  upset  my 
mind.  If,  by  loving  her,  I  outrage  your  heavenly  charms, 
she  has  no  part  in  that  crime ;  all  the  offence  comes  from 
me,  if  you  please.  It  is  true  that  I  know  the  difference 
between  you  and  her ;  but  we  cannot  escape  our  fate.  In 
short,  Nymphs,  I  feel  that  Heaven  has  granted  me  all 
imaginable  respect  for  you,  but  for  her  all  the  love  of 
which  a  heart  is  capable.  I  perceive,  by  the  blush  that 
rises  in  your  face,  that  my  words  do  not  please  you.  My 
heart  fears  to  hear  in  your  answer  what  may  wound  it  in 
its  most  tender  part ;  and  to  avoid  such  a  blow,  I  prefer 
taking  my  leave  of  you.  Nymphs. 

Lyc.  Hullo,  Myrtil,  hullo  !  Will  you  come  back,  you 
wretch  ?  He  is  off ;  but  we  shall  see  who  is  master.  Do 
not  concern  yourself  about  all  these  idle  raptures;  you 
shall  have  him  for  a  husband,  I  answer  with  my  life  for 
that. 


ACT  II. 
Scene  I. — M^licerte,  Corinne. 

Mel.  Ah  !  Corinne,  you  have  heard  it  from  Stella,  and 
she  has  got  the  news  from  Lycarsis  ? 

Cor.  Yes, 

Mel.  That  Myrtil's  charms  have  touched  the  hearts  of 
jfcroxene  and  Daphne  ? 

Cor.  Yes. 

Mel.    That  they  are  so  eager  to  secure  him,  that  both 
together  have  asked  for  his  hand,  and  that,  in  their  dis- 


SCENK  ii.J  M^LICERTE.  3I3 

cussion,  they  have  decided  to  claim  it  this  very  hour? 
How  unwilling  you  are  to  speak!  and  how  little  my  mis- 
fortune touches  you  ! 

Cor.  But  what  would  you  have  me  say  ?  This  is  the 
truth,  and  you  repeat  every  word  exactly  as  I  told  them 
to  you.'^ 

Mel.  But  how  does  Lycarsis  take  this  matter  ? 

Cor.  As  an  honour,  I  believe,  that  ought  to  please  him 
mightily. 

Mel.  And  do  not  you  see,  you  who  know  my  feelings 
so  well,  that,  alas  !  with  these  words  you  pierce  me  to  the 
heart  ? 

Cor.  How  so  ? 

Mel.  By  showing  me  thus  plainly  that  implacable  fate 
makes  me  of  so  little  consequence  as  compared  with  them. 
Is  not  the  thought,  that  they  will  be  preferred  to  me,  on 
account  of  their  rank,  enough  to  drive  me  mad  ? 

CoR.  But  I  only  answer  and  say  what  I  think. 

Mel.  Oh  !  you  kill  me  with  your  indifference.  But  tell 
me,  what  feelings  did  Myrtil  show? 

CoR.  I  know  not. 

Mel.  That  is  just  what  you  ought  to  know,  cruel  girl ! 

Cor.  In  truth  I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  Whatever  I 
do,  I  am  sure  to  displease  you. 

Mel.  It  is  because  you  do  not  enter  into  the  feelings 
of  a  heart  too  full,  alas  !  of  tender  passion.  Go  :  Leave 
me  alone  in  this  solitude  to  pass  a  few  moments  of  my 
anxiety. 

Scene  II, — Melicerte,  alone. 

Behold,  my  heart,  what  it  is  to  love.  Too  well  Belise 
warned  me  of  it.  That  darling  mother,  before  her  death, 
said  to  me,  one  day  on  the  banks  of  the  Peneus,  "  Be- 
ware, daughter ;  Love  always  comes  to  young  hearts 
surrounded  by  sweet  guiles.  At  first  it  offers  nought  but 
what  is  agreeable  ;  but  it  drags  horrible  troubles  after  it ; 
and  if  you  wish  to  pass  your  days  in  peace,  ever  defend 


1*  This  coolness  of  the  confidant,  as  opposed  to  the  impatience  of  the 
loved  one,  is  also  found  in  The  Rogueries  of  Scapin  (See  Vol,  III,),  when 
in  the  first  Scene  of  the  first  Act,  Octave  repeats  the  words  which  his  ser- 
vant Sylvestre  utters. 


314  MfeLICERTE.  [act  ii. 

yourself  from  its  darts,  as  from  an  evil."  And  Oh  !  my 
heart,  well  did  I  remember  those  lessons,  and  when  first  I 
beheld  Myrtil,  when  he  played  with  me,  and  paid  me  at- 
tentions, I  always  told  you  to  delight  less  in  them.  But 
you  believed  me  not ;  and  your  complacency  soon 
changed  into  too  much  goodwill.  You  imagined  nought 
but  joy  and  pleasure  from  this  budding  love  that  flattered 
your  desires.  Now  you  behold  the  cruel  misfortune  with 
which  fate  threatens  you  in  this  ominous  day,  and  the 
deadly  pangs  to  which  it  reduces  you.  Ah  my  heart !  my 
heart !  I  warned  you.  But  let  us,  if  we  can,  conceal  our 
grief.     Here  comes  .    .    . 

Scene  III. — Myrtil,  Melicerte. 

Myr.  I  just  now,  charming  Melicerte,  took  a  little  pri- 
soner, which  I  have  kept  for  you,  and  of  which  I  may 
perhaps  become  jealous  one  of  these  days.  It  is  a  young 
sparrow,  which  I  myself  intend  to  tame  with  great  care, 
and  for  your  acceptance.  The  present  is  not  great ;  but 
the  gods  themselves  take  note  of  the  will  only.  The  in- 
tention is  everything;  and  it  is  never  the  value  of  presents 
that  .  .  .  But,  Heaven,  whence  this  sadness?  What 
ails  you,  Melicerte,  and  what  dark  sorrow  is  reflected  in 
your  dear  eyes  this  morning  ?  You  do  not  answer  me  ; 
and  this  mournful  silence  redoubles  my  anxiety  and  im- 
patience.    Speak,  what  has  annoyed  you  ?    What  is  it  ? 

Mel.  It  is  nothing. 

Myr.  It  is  nothing,  you  say,  and  yet  I  see  your  eyes 
full  of  tears.  Does  this  agree,  fair  charmer  ?  Oh,  do  not 
kill  me  by  concealing  it,  but  explain  to  me  what  those 
tears  mean. 

Mel.  It  would  do  me  no  good  to  let  you  know  this 
secret. 

Myr.  Ought  you  to  have  anything  that  I  may  not  know? 
Do  you  not  offend  this  day  our  loves  by  wishing  to  rob  me 
of  my  share  of  your  troubles  ?  Oh  !  do  not  hide  it  from 
my  affection. 

Mel.  Well  !  Myrtil,  be  it  so.  I  must  tell  it  you,  then. 
I  have  been  informed  that,  by  a  choice  very  glorious  for 
you,  Eroxene  and  Daphn6  wish  you  for  their  husband ; 
and  I  will  confess,  Myrtil,  that  J  have  the  weakness  of  not 


SCENE  ni.J  MELICERTE.  315 

being  able  to  hear  this  without  grief;  without  accusing 
fate  of  her  rigorous  law,  which  renders  their  desires  prefer- 
able to  mine. 

Myr.  And  you  can  harbour  this  unjust  grief !  You  can 
suspect  my  love  of  weakness,  and  you  imagine  that,  bound 
by  such  sweet  charms,  I  could  ever  be  another's  !  that  I 
would  accept  any  other  proffered  hand !  Ah  !  what  have 
I  done,  cruel  Melicerte,  that  you  treat  my  tenderness  so 
harshly,  and  judge  my  heart  so  badly  ?  What !  ought  you 
even  to  doubt  it?  It  makes  me  very  wretched  to  suffer 
this  suspicion.  What  is  the  good  of  love  like  mine,  alas ! 
when  you  are  so  ready  to  disbelieve  it  ? 

Mel.  I  would  fear  these  rivals  less,  Myrtil,  if  things 
were  equal  on  both  sides ;  and  were  I  of  similar  rank,  I 
might  dare  to  hope  that  perhaps  love  would  prefer  me. 
But  the  inequality  of  wealth  and  birth,  which  makes  the 
difference  between  them  and  me  .    .    . 

Myr.  Ah  !  their  rank  will  not  conquer  my  heart,  and 
your  divine  charms  stand  you  instead  of  all.  I  love  you : 
that  is  sufficient ;  and  in  you  I  see  rank,  wealth,  treasures, 
states,  sceptre,  crown.  Were  the  greatest  monarch's  power 
offered  to  me,  I  would  not  change  it  for  the  bliss  of  pos- 
sessing you.  This  is  the  sincere  and  unvarnished  truth, 
which  to  doubt  is  an  insult  to  me. 

Mel.  Well !  Myrtil,  since  you  wish  it,  I  believe  that 
your  vows  are  not  shaken  by  their  rank  ;  and  that,  not- 
withstanding their  nobility,  riches,  and  beauty,  your  heart 
loves  me  well  enough  to  love  me  better  than  them.  But 
you  will  not  follow  the  voice  of  love.  Your  father,  Myr- 
til, will  dictate  your  choice,  and  I  am  not  dear  to  him,  as 
I  am  to  you,  that  he  should  prefer  a  simple  shepherdess  to 
aught  else. 

Myr.  No,  dear  Melicerte,  neither  father  nor  gods  shall 
force  me  to  discard  your  lovely  eyes ;  for  ever,  queen  of 
my  heart,  as  you  are  .    .    . 

Mel.  Ah,  Myrtil,  take  care  what  you  are  doing.  Do 
not  indulge  my  heart  with  hope,  which  it  would  perhaps 
too  willingly  receive,  and  which,  vanishing  afterwards  like 
a  passing  flash  of  lightning,  would  render  my  misfortune 
the  more  cruel. 

Myr.  What  !  Am  I  to  invoke  the  aid  of  oaths,  when  I 


3l6  M^LICERTE.  [ACT  ii. 

promise  to  love  you  for  ever?  How  you  wrong  yourself 
by  such  alarms  !  How  little  you  know  the  power  of  your 
charms  !  Well  !  since  you  wish  it,  I  swear  by  the  gods; 
and,  if  that  be  not  enough,  I  swear  by  your  eyes,  that  I 
shall  sooner  be  killed  than  leave  you.  Accept  here  on  the 
spot  the  pledge  which  I  give  you,  and  suffer  my  lips  to 
seal  the  oath  with  transport  on  this  fair  hand. 

Mel.  Ah  !  Myrtil,  get  up  for  fear  you  may  be  seen. 

Myr.  Is  there  aught  .  .  .  But,  oh  Heavens,  some  one 
comes  to  disturb  my  bliss. 

Scene  IV. — Lycarsis,  Myrtil,  Melicerte. 

Lyc.  Do  not  let  me  disturb  you. 

Mel.  i^Aside).     Cruel  fate  ! 

Lyc.  Not  at  all  bad,  this !  go  on  you  two.  Bless  my 
heart,  dear  son,  how  tender  you  look,  and  how  like  a  mas- 
ter you  set  about  it  already !  Has  this  sage,  whom  Athens 
exiled,  taught  you  all  these  pretty  things  in  his  philoso- 
phy? And  you,  my  gentle  shepherdess,  who  so  sweetly 
give  him  your  hand  to  kiss,  does  honour  teach  you  these 
tender  wiles  wherewith  you  thus  debauch  young  hearts  ? 

Myr.  Refrain  from  these  degrading  insinuations,  and 
do  not  pain  me  with  a  discourse  that  insults  her. 

Lyc.  I  will  speak  to  her,  I  will.  All  this  billing  and 
cooing  .    .    . 

Myr.  I  will  not  allow  her  to  be  abused.  My  birth 
obliges  me  to  have  some  respect  for  you ;  but  I  shall  be 
able  to  punish  you,  upon  myself,  for  this  outrage.  Yes,  I 
call  Heaven  to  witness,  that  if,  against  my  wishes,  you 
utter  again  to  her  the  least  harsh  word,  I  shall  with  this 
sword  give  her  satisfaction.  My  pierced  heart  shall  be 
your  punishment,  and  my  spilled  blood  promptly  convince 
her  how  highly  I  disapprove  of  your  anger. 

Mel.  No,  no ;  do  not  believe  that  I  purposely  inflame 
him,  and  that  it  is  my  design  to  seduce  his  heart.  It  is  by 
his  own  free  will  that  he  cares  to  see  me,  and  bears  me 
some  goodwill ;  I  do  not  force  him.  Not  that  I  wish  to 
refrain  from  responding  to  his  tender  passion  by  an 
equally  tender  one.  I  love  him,  I  own  it,  as  much  as 
possible  ;  but  this  attachment  has  nothing  that  ought  to 
alarm  you.     And  to  disarm  all  your  unjust  fears,  I  promise 


SCENE  V.J  MilLICERTE.  317 

you  now  to  avoid  his  presence,  to  make  room  for  the 
choice  you  have  resolved  upon,  and  not  to  listen  to  his 
protestations  of  love  unless  you  wish  it. 

Scene  V. — Lycarsis,  Mvrtil. 

Myr.  Well  !  now  she  is  gone,  you  triumph.  She  has 
spoken,  and  you  have  obtained  all  that  you  desire.  But 
know  that  you  rejoice  in  vain,  and  that  you  will  be  disap- 
pointed in  your  expectations ;  and  that  do  what  you  will, 
all  your  power  shall  not  shake  my  determination. 

Lyc.  What  presumption  is  this,  sirrah?  Is  this  the 
way  to  talk  to  me  ? 

Myr.  Yes,  I  am  wrong,  it  is  true :  and  my  anger  is  not 
seemly.  I  will  change  my  tone,  as  becomes  me  ;  and  I 
beseech  you  father,  in  the  name  of  the  gods,  and  by  all 
that  can  be  most  dear  to  you,  not  to  use  in  this  conjunc- 
ture the  supreme  power  which  nature  gives  you  over  me. 
Do  not  embitter  your  most  precious  gifts.  I  owe  my 
being  to  you ;  but  shall  I  be  indebted  to  you  this  day  if 
you  render  life  unbearable  to  me?^*  Without  M^licerte, 
it  becomes  a  torment ;  nothing  is  of  value  to  me  without 
her  divine  charms.  They  contain  all  my  happiness  and 
all  my  desires,  and  if  you  take  them  away,  you  take  life 
itself. 

Lyc.  {Aside).  He  makes  me  share  his  heart-felt  grief. 
Who  would  have  ever  thought  it  of  the  little  rogue  ?  What 
passion  !  what  excitement !  what  talk  for  one  of  his  age  ! 
It  quite  confuses  me,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  interested  in  his 
love. 

Myr.  {Throwing  himself  at  Lycarsis^  knees).  Say,  will 
you  condemn  me  to  die  ?  You  have  but  to  speak :  I  am 
ready  to  obey. 

Lyc.  {Aside).  I  can  hold  out  no  longer:  he  draws 
tears  from  me,  and  his  tender  words  make  me  yield. 

Myr.  If  in  your  heart  a  spark  of  friendship  inspires 
you  with  the  slightest  pity  for  my  fate,  grant  Melicerte 
to  my  ardent  desire,  and  you  will  give  me  more  than  life. 

Lyc.  Get  up. 

13  Nearly  these  very  words  are  used  by  Marianne,  when  she  endeavours 
to  soften  the  heart  of  her  lather,  Orgon,  in  the  third  Scene  of  the  fourth 
Act  of  Tartuffe. 


3l8  MiLICERTE,  [ACT  II. 

Myr.  Will  you  take  pity  on  my  sighs? 

Lyc.  Yes. 

Myr.  Shall  I  obtain  the  object  of  my  desires? 

Lyc.  Yes. 

Myr.  You  will  make  her  uncle  give  me  her  hand  ? 

Lyc.  Yes,  get  up,  I  tell  you. 

Myr.  Oh  !  best  of  fathers,  let  me  kiss  your  hands  after 
so  much  kindness. 

Lyc.  Ah !  how  weak  a  father  is  for  his  children  !  Can 
we  refuse  aught  to  their  tender  words  ?  Do  we  not  feel 
some  sweet  emotions  within  us,  when  we  reflect  that  they 
are  part  of  ourselves  ? 

Myr.  But  will  you  keep  your  given  promise  ?  Tell  me 
that  you  will  not  change  your  mind. 

Lyc.  No. 

Myr.  If  any  one  should  make  you  change  your  feelings, 
have  I  your  leave  to  disobey  you  ?    Say  ! 

Lyc.  Yes.  Ah,  Nature !  Nature !  I  will  go  and  see 
Mopse,  and  acquaint  him  with  the  love  his  niece  and  you 
have  for  each  others. 

MvR.  How  much  I  owe  to  your  exceeding  kindness. 
(Alone).  What  happy  news  to  tell  Melicerte !  I  would  not 
accept  a  crown  in  exchange  for  the  pleasure  of  telling  her 
this  marvellous  success  that  will  please  her  so  much. 

Scene  VI. — Acanthe,  Tyrene,  Myrtil. 

AcAN.  Ah,  Myrtil,  the  charms  which  you  have  received 
from  Heaven  are  the  cause  of  tears  in  us ;  their  dawning 
beauty,  so  fatal  to  our  desires,  robs  us  of  the  hearts  of 
those  we  love. 

Tyr.  May  we  inquire,  Myrtil,  which  of  these  two  fair 
ones  you  will  choose,  of  which  there  is  so  much  talk  ?  and 
upon  which  of  us  two  the  blow  is  to  fall  that  shatters  all 
our  expectant  affections? 

AcAN.  Do  not  let  two  lovers  pine  any  longer.  Tell  us 
what  fate  your  heart  prepares  for  us. 

Tyr.  It  is  better,  when  one  fears  such  terrible  misfor- 
tune, to  be  killed  outright  by  one  blow,  than  to  linger  so 
long. 

Myr.  Let  your  love  resume  its  calm  career,  noble  shep- 
herds ;  the  lovely  Melicerte  has  captivated  my  heart.    My 


SCENE  VII.]  M^LICERTE.  319 

lot  is  sweet  enough  with  her  not  to  wish  to  encroach  upon 
you,  and  if  your  passions  have  only  mine  to  fear,  neither 
of  you  will  have  any  cause  to  complain. 

AcAN.  Can  it  be,  Myrtil,  that  two  sad  lovers  .    .    . 

Tyr.  Can  it  be  true  that  Heaven,  giving  way  to  our 
tortures  .    .   . 

Myr.  Yes,  content  with  my  fetters  as  with  a  victory,  I 
have  declined  this  choice  so  full  of  glory.  I  have  also 
changed  my  father's  wishes,  and  made  him  consent  to  my 
happiness. 

AcAN.  (^To  Tyrene).  Ah!  what  a  charming  miraculous 
adventure  is  this,  and  what  a  great  obstacle  it  removes  to 
our  pursuits ! 

Tyr.  It  may  restore  these  nymphs  to  our  love,  and  be 
the  means  of  making  us  both  happy. 

Scene  VII. — Nicandre,  Myrtil,  Acanthe,  Tyrene. 

Nic.  Do  you  know  where  M^licerte  may  be  found  ? 

Myr.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Nic.  She  is  being  looked  for  everywhere. 

Myr.  And  why? 

Nic.  We  shall  soon  lose  this  beauty.  It  is  for  her  that 
the  King  has  come  hither ;  it  is  said  that  he  will  marry 
her  to  some  great  lord. 

Myr.  Oh,  Heaven  !  explain  these  words,  I  pray. 

Nic  They  are  important  and  mysterious  events.  Yes, 
the  King  has  come  to  seek  Melicerte  in  these  spots,  and 
they  say  that  formerly  her  mother  Belise,  of  whom  all 
Tempe  believed  Mopse  to  be  the  brother  .  .  .  But  I  have 
undertaken  to  look  for  her  everywhere.  You  shall  know 
all  about  it  by-and  bye. 

Myr.  Oh,  great  gods,  what  a  calamity  !  He  !  Nicandre, 
Nicandre ! 

AcAN.   Let  us  follow  him  that  we  may  know  all." 

1*  La  Grange  and  Vinot,  the  editors  of  the  first  collected  edition  of  Mo- 
li^re's  works  (1682),  and  who  published  for  the  first  time  Melicerte,  state 
*'  this  comedy  has  not  been  finished ;  only  these  two  acts  were  done  when 
the  King  asked  for  it.  His  Majesty  having  been  satisfied  with  it,  for  the 
feast  where  it  was  represented,  M.  de  Moli^re  has  not  finished  it." 


PASTORALE  COMIQUE. 


A  COMIC  PASTORAL. 

INTRODUCED   BY   MOLIERE   IN 

THE  BALLET  OF  THE  MUSES. 

{THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 

January  5TH,  1667. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


The  Pastorale  Comique  was  probably  represented  before  the  Court  on 

the  sth  January,  1667 ;  it  formed  part  of  the  Ballet  of  the  Muses,  and 
most  likely  replaced  the  unfinished  Melicerte  when  the  ballet  was  again 
given  in  the  beginning  of  that  month.  We  cannot  now  discover  what 
plan  Moli^re  has  followed,  or  what  he  intended  with  the  Pastorale  Co- 
mique :  he  himself  suppressed  or  destroyed  the  manuscript,  and  we  have 
only  now  the  couplets  that  were  sung,  and  which  are  preserved  in  the 
ballet-book  and  in  the  musical  partition.  They  show,  according  to  some 
commentators,  a  violent  desire,  in  Moli^re,  to  deaden  his  feelings.  I  con- 
fess that  I  can  see  in  them  only  the  ordinary  words  of  an  operatic  libretto. 
We  know  that  our  author  played  the  part  of  Lycas,  after  he  had  just  been 
ill ;  it  is  possible  that  his  hollow  and  lean  features  may  intentionally  have 
rendered  more  ridiculous  his  love  declarations. 

I  have  not  thought  it  necessary  to  give  the  names  of  the  dancers, 
singers,  musicians,  or  gipsies,  which  are  stated  in  the  official  programme 
of  the  feasts.  We  have  followed  in  the  headings  the  collected  edition  of 
MoliSre's  works,  1734. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

IN   THE   PASTORAL. 

Lycas,  a  rich  shepherd  in  love  with  Iris} 
Philene,  a  rich  shepherd  in  love  with  Iris. 
CoRYDON,  a  young  shepherdy  friend  of  Lycas,  in 

love  with  Iris. 
A  Herdsman,  friend  of  Philene. 
A  Shepherd. 
Iris,  a  young  shepherdess. 

in  the  ballet. 

Dancing  Magicians 

Singing  Magicians. 

Dancing  Demons. 

Peasants. 

A  Singing  and  Dancing  Gipsy. 

Dancing  Gipsies. 

Scene. — Thessaly,  in  a  small  village  in  the 
Valley  of  Tempe. 

^  Moliere  played  this  part  himself. 


A  COMIC  PASTORAL. 

{PASTORALE  COMIQUE). 


Scene  I. — Lycas,  Corydon. 

Scene  II. — Lycas,   dancing  and  singing  Musicians, 
Demons. 

First  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 

Two  Musicians  begin  dancing  a  kind  of  enchantment  to 
beautify  Lycas.  They  strike  the  ground  with  their 
wands,  whereupon  six  Demons  spring  from  it,  who 
join  them.  Three  more  Musicians  appear  from  un- 
derground. 

Three  Magicians  {singing).  Goddess  of  charms,  re- 
fuse us  riot  the  favour  which  our  lips  implore  of  you.  We 
beseech  you  for  it  by  your  ribbons,  by  your  diamond 
buckles,  by  your  paint  and  powder,  by  your  patches, 
your  mask,  your  head-dress,  and  your  gloves. 

A  Magician  (by  himself).  O  you !  who  can  beautify 
the  plainest  faces,  deign  to  spread,  O  Venus !  two  or  three 
charitable  doses  of  your  charms  over  this  freshly  clipped 
snout ! 

The  Three  Magicians  (singing).  Goddess  of  charms, 
refuse  us  not  the  favour  which  our  lips  implore  of  you. 
We  beseech  you  for  it  by  your  ribbons,  by  your  diamond 

327 


328  A  COMIC  PASTORAL.  [scene  ni. 

buckles,  by  your  paint  and  powder,  by  your  patches,  your 
mask,  your  head-dress,  and  your  gloves. 

Second  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 

The  six  dancing  Demons  dress  Lycas  up  in  a  ridiculous 
and  strange  fashion. 

The  Three  Magicians  {singing).  Ah  !  how  lovely  the 
youngster  is  now  !  Ah  !  how  lovely  !  how  lovely !  How 
many  fair  ones  he  will  kill.  The  most  cruel  maids  will 
jump  out  of  their  skin  when  they  approach  him.  Ah  ! 
how  lovely  the  youngster  is  now.  Ah !  how  lovely,  how 
lovely !     Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Third  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 

The  Magicians  and  the  Demons  continue  their  dancing, 
whilst  the  three  singing  Magicians  continue  to  make 
fun  of  Lycas. 

Three  Magicians  {singing).  How  fair  is  he !  how 
pretty  and  polished  !  How  fair  is  he  !  how  fair  is  he  ! 
Are  there  any  eyes  that  can  withstand  him  ?  He  is  more 
lovely  than  the  late  Narcissus,  who  was  a  consummate 
beau.  How  fair  is  he  !  how  pretty  and  polished  !  How 
fair  is  he  !     Hi,  hi,  hi,  hi,  hi,  hi ! 

{The  three  singing  Magicians  disappear  in  the  ground, 
and  the  dancing  Magicians  exeunt  at  the  sides. 

Scene  HI. — Lycas,  PniLiNE. 

Phil,  {without  perceiving  Lycas,  sings).  Browse,  my 
pretty  lambs,  the  sprouting  grass.  These  meadows  and 
these  brooks  have  something  to  charm  you.  But  if  you 
wish  to  live  content  forever,  dear  little  innocents,  beware 
of  love. 

Lyc.  *  {without  perceiving  Philene,  and  wishing  to  com- 
pose some  verses  for  his  mistress,  pronounces  the  name  of 
Iris  loud  enough  for  Philene  to  hear  it). 

Phil.  Is  it  you  whom  I  hear,  audacious  wretch  ?  Is  it 
you  who  dare  pronounce  the  name  of  her  who  holds  me 
'neath  her  sway. 

Lyc.  Yes,  it  is  I  j  yes,  it  is  L 


SCENE  IX.]  A  COMIC  PASTORAL.  339 

Phil.  How  dare  you  in  any  way  profane  that  lovely 
name  ? 

Lyc  Eh,  why  not?  why  not? 

Phil.  Iris  charms  my  soul ;  and  whosoever  shall  dare 
to  indulge  in  the  slightest  spark  of  love  for  her  will  repent 
of  it. 

Lvc.  I  do  not  care  for  that,  I  do  not  care  for  that. 

Phil.  I  will  strangle  and  eat  you,  if  ever  you  name  my 
fair.  Whatever  I  say  I  do — I  will  strangle  and  eat  you. 
It  is  enough  that  I  have  sworn  it.  Even  if  the  gods  take 
your  part,  I  will  strangle  and  eat  you,  if  ever  you  name 
my  fair. 

Lyc.  Nonsense,  nonsense. 

Scene  IV. — Iris,  Lycas. 

Scene  V. — Lycas,  a  Cowherd. 

A  Cowherd  brings  Lycas  a  challenge  from  Phildne, 
his  rival. 

Scene  VI. — Lycas,  Corydon. 

Scene  VII. — Philene,  Lycas. 

Phil,  (sings).  Stay  wretch !  turn  round  ;  and  let  us 
see  which  of  us  two  shall  gain  the  day. 

{Lycas  hesitates  to  fight. 
Enough  of  chatter;  come,  you  must  die. 

Scene  VIII. — Philene,  Lycas,  Eight  Peasants. 

The  peasants  rush  in  to  separate  Philene  and  Lycas. 

Fourth  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 

The  peasants  begin  to  quarrel  among  themselves,  while 
they  are  trying  to  separate  the  two  shepherds,  and  dance 
while  fighting. 

»- 
Scene  IX. — Corydon,  Lycas,  Philene,  Peasants. 

Corydon,  by  speaking  to  them,  finds  means  to  appease 
the  dispute  of  the  peasants. 

Fifth  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 
The  reconciled  peasants  dance  together. 


330  A   COMIC  PASTORAL.  [scene  xiii. 

Scene  X. — Corydon,  Lycas,  PniLtNE. 
Scene  XL — Iris^  Corydon. 

Scene  XII. — Philene,  Lycas,  Ikis,  Corydon. 

Lycas  and  Philene,  the  two  lovers  of  the  shepherdess, 
press  her  to  decide  which  of  them  she  prefers. 

Phil,  {to  Iris).  Do  not  expect  me  to  boast  about  the 
choice  regarding  which  you  hesitate;  you  can  see  I  love 
you;  that  tells  you  enough. 

The  shepherdess  decides  in  favour  of  Corydon. 

Scene  XIII. — Philene,  Lycas. 

Phil.  Alas  !  can  any  one  feel  a  more  poignant  grief? 
A  menial  shepherd  is  to  us  preferred,  oh  Heavens  ! 

Lyc.  (sings).     Oh  fates  ! 

Phil.  What  harshness ! 

Lyc  What  a  blow ! 

Phil.  So  many  tears, 

Lyc  And  so  much  perseverance, 

Phil.  Such  languor, 

Lyc  So  much  suffering, 

Phil.  Such  protestations, 

Lyc  And  such  cares, 

Phil.  Such  ardour, 

Lyc  So  much  love, 

Phil.  Are  treated  with  so  much  disdain  this  day !  Ah ! 
cruel  one ! 

Lyc  Hard-hearted  fair  ! 

Phil.   And  tigress  too ! 

Lyc  Merciless  maid ! 

Phil.   Inhuman  one ! 

Lyc  You  stubborn  girl  { 

Phjl.  Ungrateful  one ! 

Lyc  Pitiless  one  ! 

Phil.  You  wish  to  kill  us  then  ?  it  is  well ;  we  shall 
content  you. 

Lyc  We  shall  obey  you. 

Phil,  {drawing  his  Javelin).     Lycas,  let  us  die. 

Lyc  {drawing  his  Javelin).     Philene,.  let  us  die. 


SCENE  XV.]  A  COMIC  PASTORAL.  33I 

Phil.  Let  us  end  our  sufferings  with  this  steel. 
Lyc.  Pierce ! 
Phil.  Be  firm  ! 
Lyc.  Take  courage  ! 
Phil.  Come,  you  first. 
Lyc.  No,  I  will  be  last. 

Phil.  Since  the  same  misfortune  this  day  brings  us  to- 
gether, let  us  depart  together. 

Scene  XIV.— A  Shepherd,  Lycas,  PKiL:feNE. 

The  Shepherd  (sings).  What  folly  to  quit  life  for  a 
fair  one  who  rejects  us  !  We  might  wish  to  quit  this  life 
for  a  lovely  object's  sake,  whose  heart  favours  us,  but  to 
die  for  the  fair  one  who  rejects  us,  is  folly ! 

Scene  XV. — A  Gipsy,  Dancing  Gipsies. 

The  Gipsy.  Relieve  the  torment  of  a  poor  heart.  Of  a 
poor  heart  relieve  the  suffering.  In  vain  I  depict  my  ar- 
dent flame  ;  I  see  you  laugh  at  my  repining  :  Ah  !  cruel 
one,  I  die  through  so  much  harshness.  Relieve  the  mar- 
tyrdom of  a  poor  heart ;  of  a  poor  heart  relieve  the  suffer- 
ing. 

Sixth  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 

Twelve  gipsies,  of  whom  four  play  the  guitar,  four  the  cas- 
tagnettes,  four  the  gnacares,^  dance  with  the  gipsy  to 
the  measure  of  her  song. 

The  Gipsy.  Believe  me,  let  us  hasten,  my  Sylvia,  and 
profit  well  by  the  precious  time ;  let  us  here  satisfy  our 
desires.  The  passions  of  our  age  invite  us ;  you  and  I 
could  not  do  better. 

Winter  has  covered  our  fields  with  ice,  Spring  comes  to 
take  her  place  again,  and  to  our  pastures  gives  their  charms. 
But  when,  alas  !  old  age  has  chilled  us ;  our  happy  days 
return  no  more. 

Let  us  seek  all  day  naught  but  what  pleases  us ;  let  us 


'  The  gnacares  were  cymbals  of  small  size,  and  of  unequal  diameter. 
The  Saracens  used  them  on  horseback  to  regulate  the  march  of  their 
squadrons. 


332  A  COMIC  PASTORAL.  [scene  xv. 

both  be  earnest  about  it ;  let  pleasures  be  our  business ; 
let  us  get  rid  of  all  our  troubles;  a  time  will  come  when 
we  shall  have  enough  of  them. 

Winter  has  covered  our  fields  with  ice,  Spring  comes  to 
take  her  place  again,  and  to  our  pastures  gives  their  charms. 
But  when,  alas  !  old  age  has  chilled  our  feelings,  our 
happy  days  return  no  more. 


LE  SICILIEN;  OU,  L'AMOUR  PEINTRE. 

COMEDIE. 


THE  SICILIAN:  OR.  LOVE  MAKES  THE  PAINTER. 

COMEDY-BALLET  IN  ONE  ACT. 

{THE  ORIGINAL  PARTLY  IN  PROSE  AND  PARTLY  IN  VERSE.) 

February  14TH  (?)  1667. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


The  Sicilian  ;  or,  Love  makes  the  Painter,  was  represented,  probably  on 
the  14th,  or  the  i6th  of  February  1667,  at  the  palace  of  Versailles,  before 
Louis  XIV.  and  the  whole  court.  It  was  not  placed,  like  Melicerte  and 
the  Pastorale  Comique,  in  the  third  entry  of  the  Ballet  des  Muses,  but 
formed  a  fourteenth  entry,  with  the  following  official  heading : — "  Four- 
teenth entry.  After  so  many  different  nations  which  the  Muses  made  to 
appear  in  the  divers  assemblies  which  formed  the  entertainment  which 
they  gave  to  the  King,  there  was  nothing  wanting  but  to  bring  upon  the 
stage  Turks  and  Moors ;  and  that  is  what  they  have  thought  of  doing  in 
this  last  entry,  with  which  they  have  connected  a  little  comedy  to  give 
scope  to  the  charms  of  music  and  dancing,  by  which  they  wish  to  end." 

We  give  the  official  libretto  of  the  analysis  of  The  Sicilian,  omitting 
only  the  names  of  the  dancers  and  singers.  The  senator  of  the  comedy  is 
here  called  "a  Sicilian  magistrate." 

Scene  ist.  tiali,  by  his  master's  orders,  brings  upon  the  stage  three 
Turkish  musicians  to  give  a  serenade. 

Scene  2d.  Adraste  asks  for  the  three  musicians,  and,  to  oblige  Isidore 
to  come  to  the  window,  lets  them  sing  a  scene  from  a  comedy. 

Scene  3d.  Don  Pedro,  in  the  dark,  comes  out  of  the  house  in  a  dress- 
ing-gown, to  try  to  discover  who  gives  the  serenade. 

Scene  4th.  Hali  promises  his  master  to  invent  some  trick  in  order  to  let 
Isidore  know  the  love  which  he  has  for  her. 

Scene  sth.  Isidore  complains  to  Don  Pedro  of  the  precaution  he  takes 
to  bring  her  everywhere  with  him. 

Scene  6th.  Hali,  endeavouring  to  let  Isidore  know  his  master's  love, 
cleverly  makes  use  of  five  Turkish  slaves,  of  whom  one  sings  and 
the  four  others  dance,  proposing  them  to  Don  Pedro  as  slaves 
agreeable  and  capable  of  amusing  him.  A  Turkish  slave  sings  at 
first,  "An  impassioned  heart  follows  his  beloved  object  everywhere, 
&c.,"  by  which  he  pretends  to  express  the  passion  of  Adraste, 
and  to  make  it  known  to  Isidore  in  the  presence  of  Don  Pedro. 
The  Turkish  slave,  after  having  sung,  fearing  that  Don  Pedro 
might  understand  the  meaning  of  what  he  had  just  said,  and 
perceive  the  trick,  turns  wholly  towards  Don  Pedro,  and  to  amuse 
him,  sings  in  the  lingua  franca  these  words,  "  Chiribirida  houcha 

335 


336  THE  SICILIAN;   OR, 

la,  &c.,"  whereupon  the  four  other  Turkish  slaves  dance.  The 
slave,  who  is  a  musician,  begins  again  "  Chiribirida  houcha  la, 
&c. ;"  then,  convinced  that  Don  Pedro  suspects  nothing,  he  ad- 
dresses himself  to  Isidore  and  sings,  "  It  is  a  complete  martyr- 
dom, &c."  As  soon  as  he  has  finished,  always  afraid  that  Don 
Pedro  may  perceive  something,  he  begins  again,  "  Chiribirida 
houcha  la,  &c. ;"  then  the  four  slaves  dance  again.  At  last  Don 
Pedro,  perceiving  the  trick,  sings  in  his  turn  the  words,  "  Do  you 
know,  you  scamp,  &c."^ 

Scene  7th.  Hali  informs  his  master  of  what  he  has  done,  and  his  master 
communicates  to  him  the  stratagem  he  has  planned. 

Scene  8th.  Adraste  goes  to  Don  Pedro's  house  to  paint  the  portrait  of 
Isidore. 

Scene  9th.  Hali,  disguised  as  a  SiciUan  gentleman,  comes  to  ask  Don 
Pedro's  advice  about  an  affair  of  honour. 

Scene  loth.  Isidore  commends  the  politeness  of  Adraste  to  Don  Pe- 
dro. 

Scene  nth.  Zaide  comes  to  throw  herself  into  the  arms  of  Don  Pedro, 
so  that  he  might  protect  her  against,  the  pretended  anger  of 
Adraste. 

Scene  12th.  Adraste  pretends  that  he  wishes  to  kill  Zaide;  but  at  Don 
Pedro's  intercession,  he  moderates  his  wrath. 

Scene  13th.  Don  Pedro  places  Isidore,  under  the  veil  of  Zaide,  in  the 
hands  o£  Adraste. 

Scene  14th.  Zaide  reproaches  Don  Pedro  with  his  jealousy,  and  tells 
him  that  Isidore  is  no  longer  in  his  power. 

Scene  15th.  Don  Pedro  goes  to  complain  before  a  Sicilian  magistrate, 
who  only  speaks  to  him  about  a  masquerade  of  Moors,  which 
ends  the  Comedy  and  the  Ballet. 

The  dancing  Moors  were  of  three  kinds — Moors  and  Moorish  girls  of 
quality,  who  were  the  King,  M.  le  Grand,  the  Marquesses  de  'Villeroi 
and  de  Rassan,  Madame,  Mademoiselle  de  la  Valliere,  Madame  de 
Rochefort,  and  Mademoiselle  de  Brancas ;  naked  Moors  and  Maures  a 
capots,  or  Moors  with  light  dresses  to  imitate  skin,  who  were  professional 
dancers. 

This  comedy  was  not  given  to  the  public  before  the  loth  of  June  1667, 
when  it  was  acted  for  the  first  time,  with  the  eighteenth  representation  of 
Attila,  a  tragedy  by  P.  Comeille.  This  delay  had  been  caused  by  an  at- 
tack of  illness  of  Molifere. 

In  this  little  comedy,  the  author  has  often  employed  blank  verse ;  and 
that  he  has  done  so  purposely  has  clearly  been  proved. 

John  Crowne,  in  The  Country  Wit,  acted  at  the  Duke's  Theatre  in  1675, 
has  imitated  a  large  portion  of  the  plot,  as  well  as  of  the  language  of  The 
Sicilian.  Crowne's  play  is  said  to  have  been  a  great  favourite  with  Charles 
II.  and  also  with  the  public,  although  the  author,  in  the  dedication  to  the 
Right  Honourable  Charles,  Earl  of  Middlesex,  better  known  as  the  Earl  of 
Dorset,  states  that  it  "  stood  firmer  than  I  expected,  and  withstood  the 
battery  of  a  whole  party  who  did  me  the  honour  to  profess  themselves  my 
enemies,  and  made  me  appear  more  considerable  than  ever  I  thought 
myself,  by  shewing  that  no  less  than  a  confederacy  was  necessary  to  ruin 
my  reputation."     Both  in  the  prologue  and  in  the  dedication,  the  author 

1  This  is  the  ninth  scene  of  the  Comedy. 


LOVE  MAKES   THE   PAINTER.  337 

sarcastically  states  that  every  man  thinks  himself  a  wit,  and  that  "  city  and 
country  is  with  wit  o'erflown."  Country  Wit  is  rather  a  good,  though  a 
very  coarse,  play.  Don  Pedro  is  called  Lord  Drybone;  Isidore,  Betty 
Frisque;  Hali,  Merry;  and  Adraste,  Ramble;  but  there  is  also  another 
plot  in  this  comedy,  in  which  Sir  Thomas  Rash  wishes  his  daughter  Chris- 
tina to  marry  Sir  Mannerly  Shallow,  a  foolish  country  knight.  Instead  of 
Hali  and  Pedro  quarrelling,  as  in  The  Sicilian,  Sir  Thomas  and  Lord 
Drybone  fight  and  are  seized  by  the  watch  ;  in  the  English  play,  it  is  also 
Merry,  the  servant,  who  advises  his  master  to  go  to  Betty  Frisque's  house 
as  a  painter,  whilst,  in  the  French  comedy,  Adraste  plans  it  himself. 
Lady  Faddle,  Sir  Mannerly  Shallow,  and  the  porter,  Thomas  Rash,  and 
his  wife  are  not  to  be  found  in  The  Sicilian.  The  first  two  characters 
appear  to  be  a  reminiscence  of  Molifere's  Countess  of  Escarbagnas  and 
Monsieur  de  Pourceaugnac ,  whilst  some  of  the  scenes  between  Rambler 
and  his  man  seem  to  be  freely  followed  from  some  in  the  French  author's 
Amphitryon.  Crowne's  play  gives  a  very  peculiar  idea  of  the  manners 
and  customs  of  the  times  in  which  he  wrote.  The  licentiousness  of  his 
personages  is  only  equalled  by  the  excessive  freedom  of  language  which 
they  use ;  a  language  which  must  have  startled  some  of  the  audience,  even 
in  Charles  II.'s  reign. 

Sir  Richard  Steele,  in  The  Tender  Husband,  acted  for  the  first  time  at 
the  Theatre,  Drury  Lane,  1703,  has  also  imitated  the  twelfth  scene  of 
Moli^re's  play;  but  Adraste  is  there  called  Captain  Clerimont,  and  Isi- 
dore, simply  Niece.  I  imagine  that  Sir  Richard  also  took  the  liberty  of 
borrowing  from  Crowne's  Sir  Mannerly  Shallow  and  transforming  him  into 
Humphrey  Gubbin.  Addison  wrote  the  prologue,  and  is  said  to  have 
given  some  assistance  in  the  composition  of  this  play. 

Charles  Dibdin  also  wrote  an  opera  called  The  Metamorphoses ,  acted 
at  the  Haymarket,  probably  at  the 'end  of  1776,  but  not  with  much  suc- 
cess, and  which  is  borrowed  chiefly  from  Moliere's  Sicilian,  with  one  cha- 
racter from  George  Dandin.  Don  Pedro  wishes  to  marry  his  ward  Mar- 
cella.  Fabio,  the  servant,  assumes,  like  Hali,  various  disguises.  The 
catastrophe  in  which  Juletta  enters,  veiled,  Don  Pedro's  house,  and  asks 
the  latter  to  protect  her  against  Lysander,  her  husband's  wrath,  and  in 
which  Marcella  leaves  her  home  muffled  in  the  veil  of  Juletta,  is  borrowed 
from  The  Sicilian;  the  booby  servant  Perer  is  imitated  from  George 
Dandin. 


VOL.  II. 


W 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS. 

Don  Pedro,  a  Sicilian  gentleman,^ 

Adraste,  a  French  gentleman,  in  love  with  Isidore. 

Isidore,  a  Greek  girl,  Don  Pedro's  slave, 

A  Senator. 

Hali,  a  Turk,  Adraste' s  slave. 

Zaide,  a  young  slave  girl. 

Two  Servants. 

Musicians. 

A  Slave,  singing. 

Slaves,  dancing. 

Moors  of  both  sexes,  dancing. 


*  This  part  was  played  by  Moli^re  himself.  In  the  inventory  taken 
after  Moli^re's  death,  and  given  by  M.  E.  Soulie  in  the  Recherches  sur 
Moliere,  we  find :  "  A  dress  for  The  Sicilian,  the  breeches  and  cloak  of 
violet  satin,  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver,  lined  with  green  tabby,  the 
skirt  of  gold-colour  watered  silk,  with  sleeves  of  silver  cloth,  adorned  with 
silver  embroideries  J  also  a  night-cap,  a  wig,  and  a  sword." 


THE  SICILIAN:  OR,  LOVE  MAKES  THE  PAINTER 


LE  SICILIEN;    OU,   V AMOUR  PEINTRB. 


Scene  I. — Halt,  Musicians. 

Hali.  (7d7  the  musicians).  Hush.  Do  not  come  any 
farther,  and  stay  where  you  are  until  I  call  you. 

Scene   II. — Hali,  alone. 

It  is  as  dark  as  pitch.  The  sky  is  dressed  like  a  Scara- 
mouc/ie^  this  evening,  and  I  do  not  see  a  star  that  shows 
the  tip  of  its  nose.  What  a  droll  condition  is  that  of  a 
slave,  never  to  live  for  one's  self,  and  always  to  be  entirely 
engrossed  by  the  passions  of  one's  master,  to  be  controlled 
by  nothing  but  his  whims,  and  to  see  one's  self  reduced 
to  make  all  his  cares  one's  own  concern  !  Mine  makes 
me  here  share  his  anxieties  ;  and  because  he  is  in  love,  I 

'  See  Vol.  II.,  page  145,  note  4.  Let  me  state,  at  the  same  time,  that 
Scaramouche  was  very  much  liked  by  Louis  XIV.,  and,  when  first  pre- 
sented, sang  a  trio  with  a  trained  dog  and  a  parrot.  In  the  latter  part  of 
his  life,  Scaramouche  had  the  misfortune  to  marry  a  coquette ;  but  the 
King  took  an  interest  in  the  actor's  marital  misfortunes,  and  even  got  his 
minister  to  write  to  the  Lieutenant-General  of  Police  about  her  conduct. 
The  magistrate  threatened  her  with  imprisonment,  if  she  did  not  lead  a 
more  moral,  sober,  and  righteous  life. 


343  THE  SICILIAN  ;   OR,  [scbnk  hi. 

am  forced  to  lose  my  rest  both  day  and  night.     But  here 
come  some  torch-bearers.     It  is  he,  no  doubt.* 

Scene  III. — Adraste,  Two  Servants,  each  carrying  a 
torch,  Hali, 

Adr.  Is  it  you,  Hali  ? 

Halt.  And  who  should  it  be  but  me  ?  At  this  hour  of 
the  night,  except  you  and  me,  sir,  I  do  not  think  that 
anyone  takes  it  into  his  head  to  roam  the  streets  now. 

Adr.  Nor  do  I  think  that  anyone  can  be  met  who  feels 
in  his  heart  the  grief  that  I  do.  For,  after  all,  it  is  no- 
thing to  have  to  overcome  the  indifference  or  the  harsh 
treatment  of  the  fair  one,  whom  one  loves;  one  has  always, 
at  least,  the  pleasure  of  complaining,  and  the  liberty  of 
sighing  for  her.  But  not  to  be  able  to  find  any  opportu- 
nity of  speaking  to  her  whom  one  adores,  not  to  be  able  to 
learn  from  the  fair  one  whether  the  passion  which  her  eyes 
have  kindled  pleases  or  displeases  her ;  that  is,  in  my 
opinion,  the  most  annoying  of  all  anxieties ;  and  that  is 
to  what  I  am  reduced  by  that  tiresome,  jealous  fellow, 
who  watches  with  such  care  over  my  charming  Greek,  and 
who  does  not  stir  a  step,  without  dragging  her  at  his  side. 

Halt.  But  in  love  there  are  various  ways  of  speaking  to 
each  other ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  your  eyes  and  hers 
have  told  many  things  during  nearly  two  months. 

Adr.  It  is  true  that  she  and  I  have  frequently  spoken  to 
each  other  through  our  eyes ;  but  how  to  find  out  if  we 

*  We  have  said  in  the  Introductory  Notice,  that  Molidre  has  employed 
blank  verse  in  this  play.  We  give  below  Hali's  soliloquy  in  French,  not 
as  it  is  printed  in  the  original,  but  scanned  : 

*'  II  fait  noir  comme  dans  un  four, 
Le  ciel  s'est  habill6  ce  soir  en  Scaramouche, 
Et  je  ne  vois  pas  una  etoile 
Qui  montre  le  bout  de  son  nez. 
Sotte  condition  que  celle  d'un  esclave, 
De  ne  vivre  jamais  pour  soi, 
Et  d'etre  toujours  tout  entier 
Aux  passions  d'un  maitre  .  .  . 
Le  mien  me  fait  ici 
Epouser  ses  inquietudes ; 
Et,  parce  qu'il  est  amoureux 
II  faut  que  nuit  et  jour  je  n'aie  aucun  repos, 
Mais  voici  des  flambeaux,  et,  sans  doute,  c'est  lui." 


SCBNK  IV.]  LOVE   MAKES   THE   PAINTER.  343 

have  correctly  interpreted  this  language,  on  either  side  ? 
And  how  do  I  know,  after  all,  whether  she  quite  under- 
stands everything  that  my  glances  tell  her,  and  whether 
hers  tell  me  that  which  I  sometimes  fancy  they  do  ? 

Hali.  We  must  find  some  other  mode  of  speaking  with 
her. 

Adr.  Have  you  your  musicians  here? 

Hali.  Yes. 

Adr.  Tell  them  to  come  near.  {Alone).  I  will  make 
them  sing  here  until  daybreak,  and  see  whether  their 
music  will  not  oblige  the  fair  one  to  come  to  one  of  the 
windows. 

Scene  IV. — Adraste,  Hali,  Musicians. 

Hali.  Here  they  are.     What  shall  they  sing? 

Adr.  What  they  think  best 

Hali.  They  must  sing  the  trio  that  they  sung  to  me  the 
other  day. 

Adr.  No.     That  is  not  what  I  want. 

Hall  Ah  !  sir,  it  is  in  that  beautiful  natural. 

Adr.  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  by  that  beautiful 
natural  ? 

Hall  Sir,  I  am  fond  of  the  natural.  You  know  that  I 
am  a  judge.  I  love  the  natural ;  without  the  natural, 
there  is  no  salvation  in  harmony.  Just  listen  for  a  little 
to  this  trio. 

Adr.  No,  I  wish  something  tender  and  impassioned  j 
something  that  will  lull  me  as  in  a  sweet  dream. 

Hall  I  see  that  you  prefer  the  flat ;  *  but  there  is  a  way 
of  satisfying  us  both.  They  shall  sing  a  certain  scene  of 
a  little  comedy  that  I  have  heard  them  attempt.  Two 
shepherds,  in  love,  quite  full  of  languor,  separately  come 
into  a  grove  to  make  their  complaints  in  a  flat ;  they  con- 
fide to  each  other  the  cruelty  of  their  mistresses ;  then 
comes  a  jovial  shepherd  with  an  admirable  natural,  who 
laughs  at  their  weakness. 

Adr.  Very  well.     Let  us  hear  what  it  is. 

Hall  Here  is  just  the  very  spot  to  serve  as  a  stage ; 
and  here  are  two  torches  to  throw  a  light  upon  the  play. 

*  The  French  for  a  natural  is  becarre,  and  for  a  flat  bemol. 


344  THE  SICILIAN  ;   OR,  [scene  ii. 

Adr.  Place  yourself  against  this  house,  so  that  at  the 
slightest  noise  inside,  we  may  extinguish  the  lights. 


Fragment  of  a  Comedy,  Sung  and  Accompanied  by 
THE  Musicians  whom  Hali  has  brought. 

Scene  I. — PniLfeNE,  Tircis. 

First  Musician  {who  represents  Philene).  If  with  the 
sorrowful  tale  of  my  grief  I  disturb  the  quiet  of  your  soli- 
tude, do  not  be  angry,  O  rocks.  Rocks,  though  you  are, 
you  will  be  touched,  when  you  know  the  excess  of  my 
hidden  anguish. 

Second  Musician  {who  represents  Tircis').  The  glad- 
some birds,  when  day  begins  to  break,  renew  their  song 
in  these  vast  forests ;  and  I  renew  my  languishing  sighs, 
and  my  sad  regrets.     Ah  !  dear  Phil6ne. 

Phil.  Ah  !  dear  Tircis ! 

TiR.  What  grief  I  feel ! 

Phil.  What  cares  I  have ! 

TiR.  Ever  deaf  to  my  sighs  is  the  ungrateful  Clim^ne. 

Phil.  CKloris  has  no  sweet  looks  for  me. 

Both  together.  O  too  inhuman  law !  If  you  cannot 
compel  them  to  love,  O  Cupid !  why  do  you  leave  them 
the  power  of  charming? 

Scene  II. — Philene,  Tircis,  A  Shepherd. 

Third  Musician  {who  represents  a  shepherd).  Poor 
lovers,  what  a  mistake  to  adore  merciless  creatures  !  Sen- 
sible minds  ought  never  to  bear  with  harsh  treatment; 
and  favors  are  the  chains  which  ought  to  bind  our  hearts. 
Here  are  a  hundred  fair  ones  to  whom  I  hasten  to  offer 
my  tender  cares;  it  is  my  greatest  delight.  But  when 
they  act  like  tigresses,  upon  my  word  I  become  a  tiger 
too. 

Phil,  and  Tir.  {Together),  Happy,  alas !  are  they 
who  can  love  thus. 

Hali.  Sir,  I  just  heard  some  noise  inside. 

Adr.  Be  off  quickly,  and  extinguish  the  torches. 


SCBNK  VI.]  LOVE   MAKES   THE   PAINTER,  345 

Seene  V, — Don  Pedro,  Adraste^  Hall 

Don  p.  {In  a  night-cap  and  a  dressing-gown,  with  a 
sword  under  his  arm,  coming  out  of  his  house).  I  have 
noticed  this  singing  going  on  for  some  time  at  my  door ; 
and  no  doubt  this  is  not  done  for  nothing.  I  must  try  to 
discover  in  the  dark  who  these  people  can  be. 

Adr.  Hali. 

Hall  What  is  it  ?  ^ 

Adr.  Do  you  no  longer  hear  anything  ? 

Hall  No.     (Don  Pedro  is  behind  them,  listening). 

Adr.  What  !  are  all  our  efforts  to  speak  for  one  moment 
with  this  pretty  Greek  in  vain ;  and  shall  this  cursed  jeal- 
ous fellow,  this  wretched  Sicilian,  for  ever  bar  all  access 
to  her? 

Hall  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  the  devil  had  taken 
him  for  the  trouble  he  gives  us,  the  tiresome  fellow,  the 
hangdog  that  he  is.  Ah  !  if  we  only  had  him  here,  how 
delighted  should  I  be  to  avenge  upon  his  back  all  the 
fruitless  steps  which  his  jealousy  causes  us. 

Adr.  We  must,  for  all  that,  find  some  means,  some 
trick,  some  stratagem,  to  catch  our  brute.  I  am  too  far 
advanced  to  be  baffled  now ;  and  although  I  should  have 
to  use  .    .    . 

Hall  I  do  not  know  what  this  means,  but  the  door  is 
open.  Sir ;  and,  if  you  like,  I  will  go  in  softly  and  find 
out  what  is  the  cause  of  this. 

{Don  Pedro  goes  back  to  his  door. 

Adr.  Yes,  do  so ;  but  do  not  make  a  noise.  I  shall 
not  be  far  away.  Would  to  Heaven  it  were  the  charming 
Isidore ! 

Don  p.  {Giving  Hali  a  slap  in  the  face).  Who  goes 
there  ? 

Halt.  {Doing  the  same  to  Don  Pedro).    A  friend. 

Don  p.  Hullo  !  Francisque,  Dominique,  Simon,  Martin 
Pierre,  Thomas,  Georges,  Charles,  Barth^lemy.  Come, 
look  sharp,  my  sword,  my  buckler,  my  halberd,  my  pistols, 
my  blunderbusses,  my  guns.  Quick,  make  haste.  Here, 
kill  and  slay,  give  no  quarter. 

Scene  VI. — Adraste,  Hall 
Adr.  I  hear  not  a  soul  stir.     Hali,  Hali ! 


346  THE  SICILIAN;   OR,  [scene  vn. 

Halt.   {Hid  in  a  corner).     Sir  ? 

Adr.  Where  are  you  hiding  yourself? 

Hali.   Have  these  people  come  out  ? 

Adr.   No.     No  one  is  stirring. 

Hali.  {Coming  out  of  his  corner).  If  they  do  come, 
they  shall  have  a  drubbing. 

Adr.  What !  Shall  all  our  trouble  be  for  nothing  ? 
Shall  this  tiresome,  jealous  fellow  always  laugh  at  our 
attempts  ? 

Hall.  No.  I  get  angry,  and  my  honour  is  at  stake ;  it 
shall  not  be  said  that  anyone  has  outwitted  me.  My 
reputation  as  a  rogue  disdains  all  these  obstacles ;  and 
I  am  determined  to  show  the  talents  that  Heaven  has 
given  me. 

Adr.  I  only  wish  her,  by  some  means,  by  some  note, 
by  some  voice,  to  be  informed  of  my  feelings  towards  her, 
and  in  return,  to  know  hers  upon  the  subject.  After  that, 
we  can  easily  find  some  means  .    .    . 

Hali.  Only  let  me  manage  it.  I  shall  try  so  many  sorts 
of  things,  that,  something  or  other,  in  short,  may  suc- 
ceed. Come,  day  breaks ;  I  shall  go  and  fetch  my  men, 
and  wait  here,  until  our  jealous  fellow  goes  out. 

Scene  VII. — Don  Pedro,  Isidore. 

IsiD.  I  do  not  know  what  pleasure  you  can  have  in 
waking  me  so  early.  It  agrees  badly,  I  think,  with  your 
intention  of  having  my  portrait  painted  to-day.  You  can 
hardly  expect  me  to  have  a  fresh  complexion  and  sparkling 
eyes  by  making  me  get  up  at  break  of  day. 

Don  p.  Some  business  compels  me  to  go  out  at  this 
hour. 

IsiD.  But  this  business  can  be  very  well  transacted,  I 
believe,  without  my  presence ;  and  you  might,  without 
incommoding  yourself,  have  allowed  me  to  taste  the 
sweets  of  the  morning's  slumber. 

Don  p.  Yes.  But  I  am  very  glad  of  having  you  always 
with  me.  It  is  as  well  to  be  on  one's  guard  a  little  against 
those  vigilant  swains ;  and  not  later  than  last  night,  people 
came  and  sang  under  our  windows. 

IsiD.  That  is  true.     The  music  was  charming. 

Don  p.  It  was  intended  for  you  ? 


SCBNB  vu]  LOVE  MAKES  THE  PAINTER.  347 

IsiD.  I  must  believe  so,  since  you  say  so. 

Don  p.  Do  you  know  who  gave  this  serenade  ? 

IsiD.  I  do  not ;  but,  whoever  he  was,  I  am  obliged  to  him. 

Don  p.  Obliged? 

IsiD.  Undoubtedly,  since  he  seeks  to  amuse  me. 

Don  p.  You  think  it  right,  then,  that  people  love 
you? 

IsiD.  Decidedly.  There  is  never  anything  offensive  in 
that? 

Don  p.  And  you  wish  well  to  all  who  take  that  trouble? 

IsiD.  Certainly. 

Don  p.  You  say  pretty  plainly  what  you  think. 

IsiD.  What  is  the  good  of  dissimulating?  Whatever 
we  may  pretend,  we  are  always  well  pleased  to  be  loved. 
This  homage  to  our  charms  is  never  disagreeable  to  us. 
Whatever  we  may  say,  believe  me,  the  great  ambition  of 
women  is  to  inspire  love.  All  the  cares  they  bestow  upon 
themselves  are  for  that  only ;  and  the  proudest  inwardly 
applauds  herself  for  the  conquests  which  her  eyes  make. 

Don  p.  But  if  you  take  so  much  pleasure  in  being  be- 
loved, do  you  know  that  I,  who  love  you,  do  not  take 
any  in  it? 

I  SID.  I  do  not  know  why  this  should  be,  and  if  I 
loved  any  one,  I  should  have  no  greater  pleasure  than  see- 
ing her  beloved  by  everyone.  Is  there  anything  which 
marks  more  plainly  the  beauty  of  one's  choice?  and  ought 
we  not  to  congratulate  ourselves  in  thinking  that  what  we 
love  is  found  very  loveable? 

Don  p.  Each  one  loves  in  his  own  f>eculiar  fashion,  and 
this  is  not  my  way.  I  should  be  very  delighted  if  people 
did  not  think  you  so  beautiful,  and  you  will  oblige  me  by 
not  trying  to  appear  so  in  other  people's  eyes. 

IsiD.  What !  are  you  jealous  of  these  things  ? 

Don  p.  Yes,  jealous  of  these  things  ;  but  as  jealous  as 
a  tiger,  or,  if  you  like  it  better,  as  a  devil.  My  love 
claims  you  all  for  itself.  Its  delicacy  is  offended  at  a 
smile,  at  a  glance  which  may  be  drawn  from  you ;  and  all 
the  precautions  which  I  take  are  only  to  bar  every  access 
to  those  admirers,  and  to  assure  myself  of  the  possession 
of  a  heart,  the  slightest  part  of  which  I  cannot  bear  to 
be  robbed  of. 


348  THE  SICILIAN  ;   OR,  [scene  viii. 

IsiD.  In  good  truth,  shall  I  tell  you?  you  enter  upon  a 
wrong  path;  and  a  possession  of  a  heart  is  but  badly 
secured,  if  it  is  to  be  retained  by  force.  As  for  me,  I 
admit  candidly,  that  were  I  the  admirer  of  a  woman  who 
was  in  some  one's  power,  I  would  study  everything  to 
make  that  other  person  jealous,  and  to  compel  him  to 
watch  night  and  day  over  her  whom  I  should  like  to  win. 
It  is  an  admirable  way  to  forward  our  wishes,  and  people 
are  never  very  long  in  profiting  by  the  spite  and  anger 
which  restraint  and  servitude  awake  in  the  breast  of  a 
woman. 

Don  p.  At  this  rate,  if  any  one  made  love  to  you,  he 
would  find  you  disposed  to  receive  his  addresses? 

IsiD.  I  will  say  nothing  about  that.  But,  in  short, 
women  do  not  like  to  be  restrained ;  and  it  is  running  a 
great  risk  to  show  them  your  suspicions,  and  to  keep  them 
imprisoned. 

Don  p.  You  but  little  acknowledge  what  you  owe  me ; 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  a  slave,  to  whom  I  have  given  her 
freedom,  and  whom  I  wish  to  make  my  wife.  .    .   . 

IsiD.  Where  is  the  obligation,  if  you  but  change  one 
slavery  into  another  more  severe  still,  and  if  you  do  not 
allow  me  to  enjoy  the  least  freedom,  and  tire  me,  as  you 
do,  with  continual  watching? 

Don  p.  But  all  this  proceeds  but  from  an  excess  of 
love. 

IsiD.  If  that  is  your  way  of  loving,  I  beseech  you  to 
hate  me. 

Don  p.  You  are  in  a  pettish  humour  to-day ;  and  I  for- 
give you  your  words  on  account  of  the  annoyance  which 
you  may  feel  at  having  risen  so  early. 

Scene  VIII. — Don  Pedro,  Isidore,  Halt  {dressed  as  a 
Turk,  bowing  repeatedly  to  Don  Pedro). 

Don  p.  a  truce  to  these  ceremonies.  What  do  you 
want? 

Hali.  {Placing  himself  between  Z>on  Pedro  and  Isidore, 
At  each  word  which  he  speaks  to  Don  Pedro  he  turns  to 
Isidore,  and  makes  signs  to  her  to  let  her  understand  the 
designs  of  his  master).  Signor  (with  the  Signora's  leave), 
I  will  tell  you  (with  the  signora's  leave),  that  I  have  come 


sCENU  IX.]  LOVE  MAKES   THE   PAINTER.  349 

to  see  you  (with  the  signora's  leave),  to  ask  you  (with  the 
signora's  leave),  to  have  the  kindness  (with  the  signora's 
leave).  .    .   . 

Don  p.  With  the  signora's  leave,  come  a  little  on  this 
side.  {Don  Pedro  places  himself  between  Isidore  and 
Hall). 

Hali.  I  am  a  virtuoso,®  signor. 

Don  p.  I  have  nothing  to  give  away. 

Halt.  I  am  not  asking  for  anything.  But  as  I  meddle 
a  little  with  music  and  dancing,  I  have  taught  some  slaves, 
who  would  be  glad  to  find  a  master  who  takes  a  delight  in 
these  things ;  and  knowing  that  you  are  a  gentleman  of 
some  importance,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  look  at  them 
and  to  listen  to  them,  to  buy  them  if  they  please  you,  or 
to  recommend  them  to  one  of  your  friends,  who  might 
be  willing  to  engage  them. 

IsiD.  We  might  see  their  performance ;  it  will  amuse 
us.     Fetch  them  hither. 

Hali.  Chala,  bala.  That  is  a  new  song,  the  latest  out. 
Listen  well.     Chala,  bala. 

Scene  IX. — Don  Pedro,  Isidore,  Hali,  Turkish 
Slaves. 

A  Slave.  {Singing  to  Isidore^.  A  lover  with  an  impas- 
sioned heart  follows  its  beloved  object  everywhere ;  but 
the  eternal  watchfulness  of  an  odious  jealousy  prevents  him 
speaking  to  her  except  by  his  eyes.  Can  there  be  aught 
more  painful  to  a  heart  in  love V  {To  Don  Pedro).  Chiri- 
birida  ouch  alia.  Star  bon  Turca,  Non  aver  danara.  Ti 
voler  comprara  ?  Mi  servir  a  ti,  Se  pagar  per  mi ;  Far 
bona  cucina.  Mi  levar  matin  a,  Far  boiler  caldara ;  Parlara, 
parlara,  Ti  voler  comprara?^ 


8  Moli^re  was  the  first  to  employ  the  word  virtuose  as  a  French  noun, 
though  Madame  de  Motteville  had  already  used  it  in  its  Italian  form. 

''  The  ballet-book,  which  is  given  in  the  Introductory  Notice,  mentions 
here  some  indications  of  stage  play,  which  are  very  useful  for  the  better 
understanding  of  this  scene. 

8  This  couplet  is  in  lingua  franca,  and  with  the  exception  of  the  first 
line,  too  free  to  be  translated,  is  as  follows :  I  am  a  good  Turk,  I  have  no 
money.  Will  you  buy  me  ?  I  shall  serve  you,  if  you  pay  for  me.  I 
shall  do  good  cooking,  I  shall  rise  early,  I  shall  make  the  pot  boil. 
Speak,  speak,  will  you  buy  me  ? 


350  THE  SICILIAN  ;   OR,  [scene  ix. 

First  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 
Dance  of  the  Slaves. 
A  Slave.  (Singing  to  Isidore).  It  is  a  complete  torture 
under  which  this  lover  expires ;  but  if  the  fair  one  will 
only  look  upon  his  martyrdom  with  a  gentle  eye,  and  con- 
sent that  he  may  sigh  for  her  charms  in  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  world,  then  he  may  soon  laugh  at  all  the  precau- 
tions of  jealousy.  (TJ?  Don  Pedro).  Chiribirida  ouch 
alia,  Star  bon  Turca,  Non  aver  danara  ;  Ti  voler  compra- 
ra?  Mi  servir  a  ti,  Se  pagar  per  mi ;  Far  bona  cucina. 
Me  levar  matina.  Far  boiler  caJdara;  Parlara,  parlara,  Ti 
voler  comprara  ? 

Second  Entry  of  the  Ballet. 
The  Slaves  recommence  dancing. 

Don.  p.  {Sings);  Do  you  know,  you  scamps,  that  this 
song  smells  of  stick  for  your  backs  ?  Chiribirida  ouch 
alia.  Mi  ti  non  comprara.  Ma  ti  bastonara.  Si  ti  non 
andara;  Andara,  andara,  O  ti  bastonara.* 

Oh!  oh!  what  merry  sparks!  {To  Isidore).  Come, 
let  us  go  in  again :  I  have  changed  my  mind  ;  and  more- 
over, the  weather  looks  rather  threatening.  {To  Halif 
who  comes  back).  Ah !  you  rogue !  let  me  catch  you  at 
it  again  ! 

Halt.  Well !  yes,  my  master  adores  her.  He  has  no 
greater  desire  than  to  show  her  his  love ;  and,  if  she  con- 
sents to  it,  to  take  her  for  his  wife. 

Don  p.  Yes,  yes,  I  will  keep  her  for  him. 

Halt.  We  shall  get  her  in  spite  of  you. 

Don  p.  What  do  you  mean,  you  scoundrel  .    .    . 

Hali.  We  shall  get  her,  I  tell  you,  in  spite  of  your 
teeth. 

Don  p.  If  I  take  .   .    . 

Hali.  You  may  watch  as  much  as  you  like.  She  shall 
be  ours ;  I  have  sworn  it. 

Don  p.  Leave  me  alone,  I  shall  catch  you  without  fa- 
tiguing myself. 

•  The  meaning  of  these  words,  which  are  also  in  lingua  franca,  is  :  I 
will  not  buy  you,  but  I  will  give  you  a  cudgelling,  if  you  do  not  go  away. 
Go  away,  go  away,  or  I  will  give  you  a  cudgelling. 


SCKNBX.]  LOVE  MAKES  THE   PAINTER.  35 1 

Halt.  It  is  we  who  will  catch  you.  She  shall  be  our 
wife ;  our  mind  is  made  up.  {Alone).  I  must  accom- 
plish it,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 


Scene  X. — Adraste,  Halt,  Two  Servants. 

Adr.  Well,  Hali,  are  our  affairs  improving? 

Hali.  I  have  already  made  some  little  attempt,  sir ;  but 
I  .    .    . 

Adr.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  it;  I  have  found, 
by  accident,  all  that  I  wish ;  and  I  shall  enjoy  the  happi- 
ness of  seeing  this  fair  one  in  her  own  house.  I  happened 
to  be  at  Damon's,  the  artist,  who  told  me  that  he  had  to 
go  to-day  to  paint  the  portrait  of  this  charming  creature; 
and  as  we  are  intimate  friends  of  long  standing,  he  wishes 
to  serve  my  flame,  and  sends  me,  in  his  place,  with  a  few 
words  of  introduction.  You  know  that  I  was  always  fond 
of  painting,  and  that  I  sometimes  handle  the  brush  myself, 
much  against  the  French  custom,  which  forbids  a  nobleman 
to  know  how  to  do  anything ;  "  so  shall  I  have  the  liberty 
of  seeing  this  fair  one  at  my  ease.  But  I  do  not  doubt 
that  my  jealous  bore  will  always  be  there,  and  prevent 
any  conversation  between  us ;  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
have,  by  the  aid  of  a  young  slave  girl,  prepared  a  stratagem 
to  get  this  fair  Greek  out  of  the  hands  of  her  tormentor, 
if  I  can  prevail  with  her  to  consent  to  it. 

Hali.  Leave  it  to  me;  I  will  put  you  in  the  way  to 
converse  with  her.  (  Whispers  to  Adraste).  It  shall  not 
be  said  that  I  count  for  nothing  in  this  affair.  When  are 
you  going  there? 

Adr.  This  very  minute ;  I  have  already  prepared  every- 
thing. 

Hall  And  I  am  going,  on  my  part,  to  prepare  myself. 

Adr.  I  will  lose  no  time.  Hullo  !  I  will  not  delay  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her." 


1"  Several  great  writers  of  the  age  of  Louis  XVI.  have  made  fun  of  this 
privilege  of  idleness,  which  many  of  the  French  nobles  thought  to  belong 
to  them. 

I'  When  The  Sicilian  is  performed  in  the  present  day,  the  scene  changes 
to  the  interior  of  Don  Pedro's  house. 


35*-  THE  SICILIAN;   OR,  *  [scenh  xn. 

Scene  XI. — Don  Pedro,  Adraste,  Two  Servants. 

Don  p.  For  whom  are  you  looking  in  this  house  sir  ? 

Adr.  I  am  looking  for  Don  Pedro. 

Don  p.  He  stands  before  you. 

Adr.  He  will  take  the  trouble  to  read  this  letter,  if  it 
it  please  him, 

Don  p.  I  send  you,  instead  of  myself,  for  the  portrait  in 
question,  this  French  gentleman,  who,  anxious  to  oblige,  has 
been  good  enough  to  undertake  this  task  at  my  wish.  He  is 
unquestionably,  the  first  man  in  the  world  for  this  sort  of 
work,  and  I  thought  that  I  could  do  you  no  more  agreeable 
service  than  to  send  him  to  you,  since  you  intend  to  have  a 
finished  portrait  of  the  person  whom  you  love.  But,  above 
all,  take  care  not  to  speak  to  him  about  any  remuneration  j 
for  he  would  be  offended  at  it,  and  does  these  things  only  for 
the  sake  of  fame  and  reputation.  Sir  Frenchman,  you  in- 
tend doing  me  a  great  favour,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you. 

Adr.  All  my  ambition  is  to  oblige  people  of  standing 
and  merit. 

Don  p.  I  will  call  the  person  in  question. 

Scene   XII. — Isidore,   Don   Pedro,   Adraste,   Two 
Servants. 

Don  p.  {^To  Isidore^.  This  is  a  gentleman  whom  Damon 
sends  us,  and  who  will  be  kind  enough  to  undertake  your 
portrait.  ( To  Adraste,  who,  in  saluting  Isidore,  embraces 
her).  Hullo !  Sir  Frenchman,  this  way  of  saluting  is  not 
the  fashion  in  this  country. 

Adr.   It  is  the  fashion  of  France. 

Don  p.  The  fashion  of  France  may  suit  your  ladies ; 
but  for  ours,  it  is  somewhat  too  familiar. 

IsiD.  I  accept  this  honour  with  much  pleasure.  The 
adventure  surprises  me  immensely ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth 
I  did  not  expect  to  have  such  an  illustrious  painter. 

Adr.  There  is  no  one,  doubtless,  who  would  not  think 
it  an  honour  to  engage  on  such  a  work.  I  have  no  great 
talent ;  but,  in  this  case,  the  subject  provides  more  than 
enough  in  itself,  and  we  can  do  something  beautiful  with 
such  an  original  to  work  from. 


scBNKXii.]  LOVE  MAKES  THE  PAINTER.  353 

IsiD.  The  original  is  but  little  to  speak  of;  but  the 
skill  of  the  painter  will  be  able  to  hide  its  defects. 

Adr.  The  painter  cannot  perceive  any ;  and  all  that  he 
wishes  is  to  be  able  to  represent  its  charms  to  the  world's 
eyes  in  the  same  perfection  as  he  sees  them. 

IsiD.  If  your  brush  flatter  as  much  as  your  tongue,  you 
will  paint  a  portrait  which  will  not  be  at  all  like  me. 

Adr.  Heaven,  who  made  the  original,  has  prevented  us 
from  making  a  portrait  of  it  that  could  be  flattering. 

IsiD.  Whatever  you  may  say,  Heaven  has  not  .    .    . 

Don  p.  Let  us  finish  this,  pray.  Let  us  leave  com- 
pliments, and  think  about  the  portrait. 

Adr.  (7(?  the  servants).  Come,  bring  my  things. 
{They   bring  the   necessary  painting  implements). 

IsiD.  {To  Adraste).     Where  shall  I  sit? 

Adr.  Here.  This  is  the  right  spot,  and  catches  best  the 
precise  light  we  want. 

Isid.   {After  sitting  down).     Am  I  right  thus  ? 

Adr.  Yes.  Hold  yourself  up  a  little.  A  little  more 
that  way.  Your  body  turned  thus.  You  head  raised  a 
little,  to  show  the  beauty  of  the  throat.  This  a  little 
more  open.  {He  uncovers  her  neck  a  tittle  more).  That  is 
it.     There,  a  little  more ;  just  another  shade. 

Don  p.  {To  Isidore).  What  a  fuss  to  put  you  right; 
cannot  you  sit  properly  ? 

Isid.  These  things  are  altogether  new  to  me ;  and  it  is 
for  this  gentleman  to  place  me  as  he  likes. 

Adr.  {Seated).  There,  it  could  not  be  better,  and  you 
sit  admirably.  {Turning  her  a  little  towards  him).  Like 
this  if  you  please.  The  whole  depends  upon  the  attitude 
which  we  give  to  the  people  we  paint. 

Don  p.  Very  good. 

Adr.  a  little  more  this  way.  Your  eyes  turned  to- 
wards me,  I  pray ;  your  looks  fixed  on  mine. 

Isid.  I  am  not  like  those  ladies,  who,  having  their 
portraits  painted,  wish  them  to  be  unlike  themselves,  and 
are  not  satisfied  with  the  painter  unless  he  makes  them 
more  lovely  than  the  day.  To  content  them,  one  ought 
to  make  but  one  picture  for  them  all ;  for  they  all  ask  for 
the  same  thing, — a  complexion  entirely  of  lilies  and  roses, 
a  well  shaped  nose,  a  small  mouth,  and  large  sparkling 

VOL.  II.  X 


354  THE  SICILIAN;  OR,  [scbkb  xm. 

eyes ;  and,  above  all,  the  face  no  larger  than  a  hand,  even 
if  they  have  one  a  foot  wide.  As  for  me,  I  ask  you  for  a 
portrait  that  is  like  me,  and  which  shall  not  compel  people 
to  ask  whose  it  is. 

Adr.  It  would  be  difficult  to  have  it  asked  of  yours ; 
and  your  features  are  very  unlike  those  of  others.  How 
sweet  and  charming  they  are,  and  how  much  risk  there  is 
in  painting  them ! 

Don  p.  The  nose  seems  to  me  a  little  too  large. 

Adr.  I  have  read,  I  know  not  where,  that  Apelles,  of 
old,  painted  a  mistress  of  Alexander,  so  marvellously 
beautiful,  that,  while  painting,  he  became  so  hopelessly 
enamoured  of  her,  that  it  nearly  cost  him  his  life;  had  not 
Alexander,  out  of  generosity,  ceded  to  him  the  object  of 
his  love.  (  To  Don  Pedro?)  I  might  do  the  same  here  as 
Apelles  did  of  old ;  but  you  would  not  do  the  same  perhaps, 
as  Alexander.  (^Don  Pedro  makes  a  grimace. 

IsiD.  (7<7  Don  Pedro).  This  is  like  all  those  of  his 
nationality.  These  French  gentlemen  have  always  such 
a  stock  of  gallantry  that  they  scatter  it  everywhere. 

Adr.  One  is  seldom  mistaken  in  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
you  have  too  much  good  sense  not  to  see  whence  come 
the  words  which  one  says  to  you.  Yes,  were  Alexander 
present,  and  your  lover,  I  could  not  help  telling  you  that 
I  have  never  beheld  aught  so  beautiftil  as  what  I  see  now, 
and  that  .    .    . 

Don  p.  Sir  Frenchman,  I  think  you  ought  not  to  talk 
so  much ;  it  takes  your  attention  from  your  work. 

Adr.  Ah !  Not  at  all.  I  am  in  the  habit  of  talking 
when  I  p>aint,  and  a  little  conversation  is  necessary  in 
these  cases  to  wake  up  the  mind,  and  to  keep  the  faces  of 
those  we  paint  in  the  requisite  gay  mood. 

Scene  XIII. — Halt  disguised  as  a  Spanish  gentleman.^* 
Don  Pedro,  Adraste,  Isidore. 

Don  p.  What  does  this  man  want?  And  who  lets 
people  walk  up  without  announcing  them? 

Hali.  {To  Don  Pedro).     I  have    entered  boldly;  but 

•»  In  the  ballet,  Hali  is  dressed  as  a  Sicilian  gentleman  ;  but  here,  as  a 
Spanish  one.     Hence  his  Castilian  name,  Don  Gilles  d'.\valos. 


scKNKxm.]  LOVE  MAKES  THE  PAINTER-  355 

between  gentlemen,  such  freedom  is  allowed.  Sir,  am  I 
known  to  you? 

Don  p.  No,  Sir. 

Hali.  I  am  Don  Gilles  d' Avalos ;  and  the  history  of 
Spain  must  have  made  you  acquainted  with  my  merit. 

Don  p.  Do  you  wish  anything  from  me? 

Hali.  Yes,  advice  upon  an  affair  of  honour.  I  know 
that  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  gentleman  more  perfect 
in  these  matters  than  you ;  but  I  must  beg  of  you  as  a 
fevour  to  draw  a  little  aside. 

Don  p.  This  will  be  fair  enough. 

Adr.  To  Don  Pedro^  who  catches  him  whispering  to 
Isidore^.     She  has  blue  eyes. 

Hali.  {Drawing  Don  Pedro  away  from  Adraste  and 
Isidore^.  Sir,  I  have  received  a  slap  in  the  face.  You 
know  what  a  slap  is, "  when  it  is  given  with  an  open  hand, 
in  the  very  middle  of  the  cheek.  I  take  this  slap  much  to 
heart ;  and  I  am  uncertain  whether  to  avenge  the  insult, 
I  ought  to  fight  my  man,  or  rather  to  have  him  assassi- 
nated. 

Don  p.  Assassinated;  that  is  the  sorest  and  quickest 
way.     Who  is  your  enemy? 

Hali.  Let  us  speak  low,  if  you  please. 

{Hali  holds  Don  Pedro,  while  speaking  to  him  in  siuh  a 
manner  that  he  cannot  see  Adraste. 

Adr.  (^At  Isidore's  knees,  while  Hali  and  Don  Pedro 
whisper  together).  Yes,  charming  Isidore,  my  looks  have 
told  you  as  much  for  the  last  two  months,  and  you  have 
understood  them.  I  love  you  more  than  aught  else,  and 
I  have  no  other  thought,  no  other  aim,  no  other  passion, 
than  to  be  yours  all  my  life. 

IsiD.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  speak  the  truth ;  but 
you  make  me  believe  you. 

Adr.  But  do  I  make  you  believe  me  sufficiently  to 
inspire  you  with  ever  so  little  kindness  towards  myself? 

IsiD.  I  only  fear  I  have  too  much. 

Adr.  Have  you  enough,  fair  Isidore,  to  consent  to  the 
plan  of  which  I  have  told  you  ? 

IsiD.  I  cannot  tell  you  yet. 

**  Hali  has  ghren  a  slap  in  the  &ce  to  Doo  Pedro  in  the  fifth  scene. 


356  THE  SICILIAN ;  OR,  {acxss  xjv. 

Adr.  What  are  you  waiting  for? 

IsiD.  To  make  up  my  mind. 

Adr.  Ah  !  when  people  love  with  all  their  hearts,  they 
make  up  their  minds  quickly. 

IsiD.  Very  well  then  !  yes,  I  consent  to  it. 

Adr.  But  do  you  consent,  tell  me,  that  it  be  this  very 
moment? 

IsiD.  Very  well  then ;  yes,  I  consent  to  it. 

Adr.  But  do  you  consent,  tell  me,  that  it  be  this  very 
moment  ? 

Isid.  When  once  our  mind  is  made  up  about  a  thing, 
do  we  consider  the  time  ? 

Don  Fed.  {To  Halt).  This  is  my  opinion,  and  I  kiss 
your  hands. 

Halt.  Sir  if  you  ever  receive  a  slap  in  the  face,  I  am 
also  a  man  of  counsel  j  and  I  may  be  able  to  return  the 
service. 

Don  p.  You  will  pardon  me  for  not  seeing  you  to  the 
door;  but,  between  gentlemen,  such  freedom  is  allowed. 

Adr.  (7<?  Isidore).  No,  there  is  nothing  that  could 
efface  from  my  heart  the  tender  proofs  .  .  .  {To  Do?i 
Pedro,  who  perceives  him  speaking  very  closely  to  Isidore). 
I  was  looking  at  this  little  dimple  which  she  has  got  at  the 
side  of  her  chin,  and  I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  a  mole- 
But  we  have  done  enough  for  to-day ;  we  will  finish  at  an- 
other time.  {To  Don  Pedro,  who  wishes  to  see  the  portrait). 
No,  do  not  look  at  anything  yet.  Have  it  carefully  put 
aside,  I  pray;  {To  Isidore),  and  you,  I  beseech  you,  not  to 
give  way,  and  to  keep  your  spirits  up,  in  order  that  I  may 
finish  my  work. 

Isid.  I  shall  reserve  all  the  gaiety  I  can  for  this. " 

Scene  XIV. — Don  Pedro,  Isidore. 
Isid.    What  say  you  ?     This  gentleman  seems  to  me  the 
most  polite  in  the  world ;  and  one  must  admit  that  the  French 

1*  One  of  the  most  usual  contrivances  on  the  stage  to  see  a  lover  dis- 
guising himself  in  order  to  get  an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  the  object 
of  his  love.  Moli^re  has  employed  it  four  times.  In  this  play  Adraste  is 
a  painter ;  in  Love  is  the  best  Doctor,  Clitandre  is  a  physician ;  in  The 
Physician  in  spite  of  himself  ,  Leander  is  an  apothecary  ;  and  in  Le  MalatU 
Imaginaire  (see  Vol.  III.),  Cleante  is  a  music  master. 


SCBNB  XVI.]  LOVE   MAKES  THE   PAINTER.  357 

have  in  them  something   so  polished,  so  gallant,  which 

other  nations  have  not. 

Don  p.  Yes ;  but  they  have  that  against  them  that  they 

are  somewhat  too  free,  and  that,  madcap-like,   they  are 

too  fond  of  whispering  sweet  nothings  to  every  woman 

whom  they  meet- 
Ism.  It  is  because  they  know  that  those  things  please 

the  ladies. 

Don  p.  True ;  but  if  they  please  the  ladies,  they  very 

much  displease  the  gentlemen  ;  and  one  is  not  very  glad  t 

to  see  one's  wife  or  mistress  openly  courted  to  one's  very 

face. 

IsiD.  They  do  so  on,ly  in  sport. 

Scene  XV. — Zaide,  Don  Pedro,  Isidore. 

Zai.  Ah,  Sir,  save  me,  I  beseech  you,  from  the  hands 
of  an  enraged  husband  who  is  close  upon  my  heels.  His 
jealousy  is  incredible,  and  surpasses  in  its  violence  every- 
thing imaginable.  He  carries  it  so  far  as  to  wish  me 
to  be  always  veiled ;  and  for  having  found  me  with  my 
face  a  little  uncovered  he  has  drawn  his  sword,  and  he  has 
compelled  me  to  throw  myself  upon  you,  and  to  ask  for 
your  protection  against  his  injustice.  But  I  see  him  com- 
ing ;  for  heaven's  sake,  honoured  Sir,  save  me  from  his  fury. 

Don  p.  {To  Zaide,  pointing  to  Isidore).  Go  in  there 
with  her,  and  fear  nothing. 

Scene  XVI. — Adraste,  Don  Pedro. 

Don  p.  What,  sir,  is  it  you  ?  So  much  jealousy  in  a 
Frenchman.  I  fancied  that  only  we  were  capable  of  such 
a  thing.  ^ 

Adr.  The  French  always  excel  in  everything  they 
do ;  and,  when  we  take  it  into  our  heads  to  be  jealous, 
we  are  twenty  times  more  so  than  a  Sicilian.  This  in- 
famous girl  thinks  to  have  found  a  safe  refuge  with  you  ; 
but  you  are  too  sensible  to  blame  my  resentment.  Allow 
me,  I  pray  you,  to  treat  her  as  she  deserves. 

Don  p.  Ah  !  for  pity's  sake,  stop.  The  offence  is  too 
trifling  for  so  much  anger. 

Adr.  The  extent  of  the  offence  lies  not  in  the  import- 
ance of  the  deed  :  it  is  in  the  transgression  of  the  given 


358  THE  SICILIAN;  OR,  [scenk  xdc. 

orders ;  and  in  such  matters  that  which  is  only  a  trifle 
becomes  very  criminal  when  it  is  forbidden. 

Don  p.  To  judge  by  what  she  has  said,  all  that  she  has 
done  was  unintentional;  and  I  pray  you  to  be  reconciled. 

Adr.  What !  you  take  her  part,  you  who  are  so  par- 
ticular in  matters  of  that  kind. 

Don  p.  Yes,  I  take  her  part ;  and  if  you  would  oblige 
me,  you  will  forget  your  anger,  and  be  reconciled  to  each 
other.  It  is  a  favour  which  I  ask  of  you,  and  I  shall  look 
upon  it  as  an  earnest  of  the  friendship  which  I  should  like 
to  subsist  between  us. 

Adr.  Under  these  conditions,  I  can  refuse  you  nothing. 
I  will  do  as  you  wish. 

Scene  XVII. — Zaide,  Don  Pedro,  Adraste,  hidden  in 
a  comer  of  the  stage. 

Don  P.  {To  Zaide^.  Come  along,  I  say.  Only  follow 
me,  I  have  made  your  peace.  You  could  not  have  fallen 
into  better  hands. 

Zai.  I  am  much  more  obliged  to  you  than  you  think  ; 
but  I  shall  take  my  veil ;  I  shall  take  care  not  to  appear 
before  him  without  it. 

Scene  XVIII. — Don  Pedro,  Adraste. 

Don  p.  She  will  be  here  directly;  and  I  assure  you 
that  she  seemed  very  glad  when  I  told  her  that  I  had 
made  it  all  right. 

Scene  XIX. — Isidore,  with  Zaide' s  veil,  Adraste, 
Don  Pedro. 

Don  p.  Since  you  have  consented  to  forego  your  re- 
sentment, allow  me  to  make  you  shake  hands  together 
here  ;  and  to  beg  of  you  to  live  henceforth,  for  my  sake, 
in  a  perfect  understanding. 

Adr.  Yes,  I  promise  you,  that  for  your  sake,  I  shall 
live  on  the  best  possible  terms  with  her. 

Don  p.  You  oblige  me  greatly,  and  I  shall  bear  it  in 
mind. 

Adr.  I  give  you  my  word,  Don  Pedro,  that  out  of  con- 


SCENE  XXI.]  LOVE   MAKES  THE  PAINTER.  359 

sideratiou  for  you,  I  shall  treat  her  with  the  utmost  pos- 
sible kindness. 

Don  p.  You  are  really  too  kind.  {Alone).  It  does  one 
good  to  make  matters  pleasant  and  peaceful.  Hullo, 
Isidore,  come. 

Scene  XX. — Zaide,  Don  Pedro. 

Don  p.  What  is  this  !     What  means  this  ? 

Zai,  ( Without  her  veil).  What  means  this  ?  That  a 
jealous  man  is  a  monster  hated  by  all  the  world  ;  and  that 
everyone  delights  to  annoy  him  for  annoyance'  sake ;  that 
all  the  locks  and  bolts  cannot  keep  people :  and  that  the 
heart  must  be  won  by  gentleness  and  kindness ;  that  Isidore 
is  in  the  hands  of  a  gentleman  whom  she  loves,  and  that 
you  have  been  duped. 

Don  p.  And  shall  Don  Pedro  suffer  this  mortal  insult ! 
No,  no,  I  have  too  much  courage ;  and  I  shall  go  and  de- 
mand the  assistance  of  the  authorities  to  punish  this 
perfidy  to  the  utmost.^*     Here  lives  a  senator.     Hullo  ! 

Scene  XXI. — A  Senator,  Don  Pedro. 

Sen.  Your  servant,  Don  Pedro.  How  opportunely  you 
come! 

Don  p.  I  come  to  complain  to  you  of  an  insult  which 
I  have  suffered. 

Sen.  I  have  just  arranged  the  most  beautiful  masquerade 
in  the  world. 

Don  p.  a  treacherous  Frenchman  has  played  me  a  trick. 

Sen.  You  have  never,  in  all  your  life,  seen  anything  so 
beautiful. 

Don  p.  He  has  abducted  a  girl  to  whom  I  had  given 
her  freedom. 

Sen.  They  are  people  dressed  like  Moors,  who  dance 
admirably, 

Don  p.  You  may  judge  whether  this  is  an  insult  which 
I  ought  to  bear. 

Sen.  Most  marvellous  dresses,  made  expressly. 


15  If  a  ballet  ends  this  play,  the  stage  changes  here  again  to  the  market- 
place of  the  first  scene.    But  when  there  is  no  ballet,  the  piece  ends  here. 


360  THE  SICILIAN  ;   LOVE  MAKES  THE   PAINTER,  [scene  xxii. 

Don  p.  I  demand  the  assistance  of  the  authorities  in 
this  matter. 

Sen,  I  wish  you  to  see  this.  They  are  going  to  rehearse 
it  to  amuse  the  people. 

Don  p.  What  are  you  talking  about  ? 

Sen.  I  am  speaking  about  my  masquerade. 

Don  p.  I  am  speaking  of  my  affair. 

Sen.  I  will  not  occupy  myself  about  any  matter,  except 
pleasure,  to-day.  Come,  gentlemen,  come.  Let  us  see 
whether  it  will  go  all  right. 

Don  p.  Plague  take  the  fool,  with  his  masquerade  ! 

Sen.     The  deuce  take  the  bore,  with  his  affair ! 


Scene  XXII. — ^A  Senator,  Troup  of  Dancers. 

Entry  of  the  Ballet. 

Several  dancers,  dressed  as  Moras,  dance  before  the 
Senator,  and  finish  the  comedy. 


U 


TARTUFFE;  OU  LIMPOSTEUR. 

COMEDIE. 


TARTUFFE:  OR.  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

A  COMEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

{^THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 

August  5  th,  1667. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE. 


Hypocrisy  has  at  all  times  been  a  legitimate  subject  of  satire  in 
modern  society.  In  classical  literature,  such  a  vice  seems  to  have  been 
unknown ;  for  it  can  develop  itself  only  in  the  midst  of  a  society  based, 
or  pretending  to  be  based,  upon  religion.  Wherever  indifference  in  mat- 
ters of  religion  existed  among  the  ancients,  the  hypocrite  must  have  been 
rare ;  for  his  outward  adornment  of  wise  and  moral  saws  could  have  been 
of  no  service  to  him.  But  as  soon  as  religion  became  part  and  parcel  of 
the  State  policy,  men  found  it  convenient  and  profitable  to  shelter  their 
vices  under  a  cloak  of  outward  decorum,  and  tried  to  make  the  best  of 
both  worlds ;  but,  above  all,  of  this  one.  Literary  men  were  not  slow  in 
describing  this  new  character ;  and  from  the  middle  ages  down  to  the 
present  time,  in  all  climes  and  in  all  countries,  the  hypocrite  appears  on 
the  scene.  He  plays  the  principal  part  in  the  Fabliaux  ;  and  whether  as 
an  incontinent  hermit,  a  lecherous  chaplain,  an  intriguing  monk,  or  a 
faithless  confessor,  he  is  always  described  in  bold,  but  rather  coarse, 
strokes,  and  gets  generally  punished  and  jeered  at  in  the  end.  We  find 
him  in  some  of  the  early  German  satirical  poems ;  and  in  the  latter  part 
of  the  epic,  Reynard  the  Fox.  Rutebeuf,  a  trouvere  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  gives  us,  in  the  Chanson  des  Ordres,  the  portrait  of  a  Pharisee, 
who  seems  an  ancestor  of  Tartuffe,  and  who  goes  about  in  a  large  plain 
woollen  gown,  with  a  thin  and  pale  face,  austere  mien  and  words,  and 
who  has  the  ambition  of  a  lion,  the  claws  of  a  leopard,  and  the  malice  of 
a  scorpion. 

In  the  continuation  of  The  Romaunt  of  the  Rose,  by  Jean  de  Meung, 
appears  Faux  Semblaunt,  an  ancestor  of  Tartuffe,  whom  Chaucer,  in  his 
translation,  makes  speak  as  follows : 

"  Now  am  I  knight,  now  chastelaine. 
Now  prelate,  and  now  chaplaine, 
Now  priest,  now  clerke,  now  fostere. 
Now  am  I  master,  now  schollere. 
Now  monke,  now  chanon,  now  baily. 
What  ever  mister  man  am  I  .  .  .  . 
Well  can  I  beare  me  under  wede. 
Unlike  is  my  word  to  my  dede. 


364  TARTUFFE;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

The  conversation  between  Love  and  Faux  Semblaunt  is  also  from  the 
same  Romaunt,  and  shows  the  perfect  hypocrite. 

"  Tell  forth,  and  shame  thee  never  adele. 

For  as  thine  habit  sheweth  wele, 

Thouservest  an  holy  hermite." 
"  Sooth  is,  but  I  am  but  an  hypocrite. 

Thou  goest  and  preachest  poverte  ?" 
"  Yea,  sir,  but  Richesse  hath  poste. 

Thou  preachest  abstinence  also  ?" 
"  Sir,  I  woU  fiUen,  so  mote  I  go, 

My  paunche  of  good  meat  and  wine 

As  should  a  maister  of  divine. 

For  how  that  I  me  poore  fame. 

Yet  aU  poore  folke  I  disdaiue." 

Boccaccio,  in  his  Decameron,  describes  several  times  the  hypocrite,  and 
Machiavelli,  in  his  play,  the  Mandragore,  acted  in  1515  before  the  Pope 
and  his  Court,  sketches  a  monkish  pander,  who  lays  down,  in  rather  broad 
language,  the  maxim  that  the  intentions  of  a  man  are  everything,  and  that 
his  actions  are  nothing. 

About  the  same  time,  there  was  played  in  France  la  Farce  des  Brus,  in 
which  friar  Ancelot  and  friar  Anselme  are  still  more  cynical  than  their 
prototype,  friar  Timoteo.  .  In  the  Satyre  Menippee,  the  hypocrite  also  ap»- 
pears,  but  full  of  sedition,  and  warlike.  Mathurin  Regnier  describes,  in 
the  eighteenth  of  his  Satires,  Macette,  a  hypocritical  lady,  in  the  follow- 
ing words :  "  Night  and  day  she  goes  from  convent  to  convent,  visits  the 

holy  places,  confesses  herself  often She  dwells  and    lives  apart 

from  the  world ;  her  penitent  eyes  weep  only  holy  water."  Such  is  her 
portrait :  but  this  is  what  she  herself  says  :  "  That  is  why  I  disguise  the 
up-wellings  of  my  heart,  envelop  my  ardour  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  and 
hide  my  purpose,  which  is  to  abandon  myself  to  pleasures.  A  concealed 
sin  is  half  forgiven  ;  the  fault  does  not  lie  only  in  its  being  forbidden,  but 
scandal  and  disgrace  are  the  causes  of  the  offence.  Provided  it  be  not 
known,  no  matter  how,  as  long  as  we  can  deny  it,  we  sin  not  at  all. 
Moreover,  the  goodness  of  Heaven  is  greater  than  our  offences,  and  pro- 
vided we  confess,  we  are  always  pardoned."  The  portrait  is  more  odious, 
but  is  not  very  unlike  Tartuffe, 

In  Pascal's  Provinciales,  the  Jesuitical  hypocrite  is  also  well  described. 
All  this  tends  to  prove  that  of  Tartuffe  can  be  said  what  may  be  stated 
of  all  masterpieces  of  the  human  intellect, — that  it  is  the  most  finished  and 
best  expressed  result  of  a  series  of  more  or  less  complete  ideas,  which, 
for  ages,  men  have  attempted  to  shape  into  a  certain  form. 

Moli^re  evidently  owes  something  to  a  tragi-comic  tale  of  Scarron, 
called  The  Hypocrites.  In  this  tale,  the  author  relates  how  a  certain  ad- 
venturer, called  Montufar,  and  two  queans,  the  younger  of  whom  was 
named  Helen,  and  the  older  Mendez,  resolved  to  take  advantage  of  the 
credulity  of  the  inhabitants  of  Seville,  by  pretending  to  be  devout. 

"  They  alighted  within  a  league  of  the  city,  and  having  satisfied  the  muleteer, 
got  thither  about  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  and  took  up  their  lodgings  at  the  first  inn 
they  found.  Montufar  hired  a  house,  furnished  it  with  very  ordinary  furniture, 
and  dressed  himself  all  in  black,  with  a  cassock  and  cloak  of  the  same  colour. 
Helen  assumed  the  habit  of  a  religious  sister,  that  had  devoted  herself  to  pious 
works,  and  Mendez  went  dressed  like  a  saint,  valuing  herself  upon  her  hoary  locks, 
and  a  huge  monstrous  chaplet,  each  bead  of  which  was  big  enough  to  load  a  demi- 
culverin.  The  very  next  day  after  their  arrival,  Montufar  showed  himself  in  the 
street,  apparelled  as  I  have  already  described  him,  marching  with  his  arms  across. 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  365 

and  looking  on  the  ground  whenever  he  met  any  woman.  He  cried  out,  with  a 
voice  shrill  enough  to  have  rent  a  rock,  '  Blessed  be  the  holy  sacrament  of  the  altar, 
and  the  thrice  happy  conception  of  the  immaculate  virgin  ! '  and  uttered  many  more 
devout  exclamations  with  the  same  everlasting  lungs  of  leather.  He  made  the 
children  whom  he  met  in  the  streets  repeat  the  same  words  after  him  ;  and  more- 
over, assembled  them  sometimes  together,  to  teach  them  to  sing  hymns  and  songs 
of  devotion,  and  to  instruct  them  in  their  Catechism.  He  repaired  to  the  gaols  and 
preached  to  the  prisoners,  comforting  some  and  relieving  others,  begging  victuals 
and  other  provisions  for  them,  and  frequently  walking  with  a  heavy  basket  upon  his 
back.  O,  detestable  villain  !  thou  wantedst  nothing  but  to  set  up  for  a  hypocrite, 
to  be  the  most  profligate  accompllsh'd  rascal  in  the  Universe.  These  actions  of 
virtue,  in  a  fellow  that  was  the  least  virtuous  of  mankind,  procur'd  him  in  a  little 
time  the  reputation  of  a  saint.  Helen  and  Mendez  likewise  did  all  that  in  them 
lay  to  deserve  canonization.  The  one  called  herself  the  mother,  the  other  the  sis- 
ter of  the  thrice  blessed  Friar  Martin.  They  went  every  day  to  the  hospitals, 
where  they  assisted  the  sick,  made  their  beds,  washed  their  linen,  and  did  all  this 
at  their  own  expense.  By  these  means  the  most  vicious  people  in  Spain  obtained 
the  universal  admiration  of  all  Seville.  About  this  time,  a  gentleman  of  Madrid 
happened  to  come  thither  about  some  private  affairs  ;  he  had  formerly  been  one 
of  Helen's  lovers,  for  women  of  this  character  have  commonly  more  than  one  string 
to  their  bow.  He  knew  Mendez  to  be  a  notorious  cheat,  and  Montufar  to  be  no 
better.  One  day  as  they  came  out  of  church,  encompassed  by  a  great  number  of 
persons,  who  kissed  their  very  garments,  and  conjur'd  them  to  remember  them  in 
their  prayers,  they  were  known  by  the  aforesaid  gentleman  ;  who,  burning  with  a 
Christian  zeal,  and  not  able  to  suffer  three  such  notorious  impostors  to  abuse  the 
credulity  of  the  whole  city,  broke  through  the  crowd,  and  giving  a  hearty  box  on 
the  ear  to  Montufar,  '  You  wicked  cheat,'  cried  he,  '  do  you  neither  fear  God  nor 
man?'  He  would  have  said  more,  but  his  good  intention,  which  in  truth  was  some- 
what of  the  rashest,  had  not  the  success  it  deserved;  all  the  people  fell  on  him 
whom  they  believed  to  have  committed  sacrilege,  in  offering  this  violence  to  their 
saint.  He  was  beaten  to  the  ground,  and  had  certainly  been  torn  to  pieces  by  the 
mob,  had  not  Montufar,  by  a  wonderful  presence  of  mind,  undertaken  his  pntection 
by  covering  him  with  his  body,  keeping  off  those  that  were  most  enraged  with  him. 
and  exposing  himself  to  their  blows.  '  My  brethren,' cried  he  to  them  as  loud  as 
he  could  bawl,  '  let  the  poor  wretch  alone,  for  the  love  of  God  :  be  quiet,  for 
the  love  of  the  blessed  Virgin.'  These  few  words  having  appeased  this  horrible 
tempest,  the  people  made  room  for  brother  Martin  to  pass,  who  went  up  to  the  un- 
fortunate gentleman,  well-pleased  in  his  heart  to  see  him  so  used,  though  showing 
outwardly  a  mighty  concern  for  him.  He  raised  him  up  from  the  ground,  em- 
braced and  kissed  him,  all  covered  as  he  was  with  blood  and  dirt,  and  reprimanded 
the  people  for  their  rude  behaviour.  *  I  am  a  wicked  man,'  said  he  to  thestanders- 
by.  '  I  am  a  sinner  ;  I  am  one  that  never  did  anything  pleasing  in  the  eyes  of 
God.  Do  you  believe,'  continued  he,  '  because  you  see  me  dressed  in  this  religious 
garb,  that  I  have  not  been  a  robber  all  my  life-time,  the  scandal  of  others  and  the 
destruction  of  myself?  Alas  !  you  are  mistaken,  my  brethren,  make  me  the  mark 
of  your  contumelies,  pelt  me  with  stones,  nay,  draw  your  swords  upon  me.'  Hav- 
ing spoken  these  words  with  a  counterfeit  sorrow,  he  threw  himself,  with  a  zeal  yet 
more  counterfeit,  at  the  feet  of  his  enemy,  and  kissed  them,  not  only  begged  his 
pardon,  but  likewise  gathered  up  his  sword,  cloak,  and  hat,  which  he  had  lost  in 
the  scuffle.  He  helped  him  on  with  them  again,  and  leading  him  by  the  hand  to 
the  end  of  the  street,  took  his  leave  of  him,  after  he  had  bestowed  abundance  of  em- 
braces and  as  many  benedictions  on  him.  The  poor  man  was,  as  it  were,  out  of 
his  wits  at  what  he  had  seen,  and  with  what  had  been  done  to  him,  and  was  so  full 
of  confusion  that  he  durst  hardly  show  his  head  all  the  while  his  affairs  detained 
him  at  Seville.  Montufar  had  won  the  hearts  of  all  the  city  by  this  pretended  act 
of  devotion;  the  people  gaz'd  at  him  with  admiration,  and  the  children  cried  after 
him,  '  a  Saint,  a  Saint,'  as  they  cried  out  '  a  Fox,  a  Fox,'  when  they  saw  his  enemy 
in  the  street.  From  this  moment,  he  lived  the  happiest  life  in  the  world.  Some 
nobleman,  cavalier,  magistrate,  or  prelate  perpetually  invited  him  to  dinner,  and 
strove  who  should  have  the  most  of  his  company.  If  he  were  askedhis  name,  he 
would  answer,  '  He  was  a  beast  of  burthen,  a  sink  of  filth,  vessel  of  iniquity','  and 
such  like  noble  attributes  which  his  counterfeit  devotion  dictated  to  him.  When 
he  visited  any  of  the  ladies,  he  complained  to  them  incessantly  of  the  nothingness 
of  his  dispensation,  and  the  deadness  of  the  inward  man,  adding,  he  wanted  con- 
centration of  heart  and  recollection  of  spirit.  In  short,  he  always  talked  to  them  in 
this  magnificent  cant  and  holy  gibberish.     No  alms  were  given  in  Seville  but  what 


366 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 


passed  through  his  hands,  or  those  of  Helen  and  Mendez,  who  were  not  wanting 
likewise  to  act  their  parts  to  admiration,  and  stood  as  fair  for  a  red-letter  prefer- 
ment in  the  almanack  J  mean  to  be  sainted)  as  Montufar  himself  A  lady  of  qual- 
ity, who  was  a  widow,  and  devout  even  to  superstition,  sent  them  every  day  two 
dishes  of  meat  for  dinner,  and  as  many  for  supper  ;  and  you  must  know,  these 
dishes  were  dressed  by  the  very  best  cooks  in  Seville.  Their  house  was  too  little 
to  receive  the  numerous  presents  which  were  daily  sent  to  them.  A  woman  that 
had  a  mind  to  be  with  child  put  her  petition  into  their  hands,  to  the  end,  by  their 
mediation,  it  might  be  presented  to  the  tribunal  of  heaven.  Another  that  had  a  son 
in  the  Indies  did  the  same  ;  as  likewise  a  third  that  had  a  brother,  prisoner  in  Al- 
giers. Nay,  the  poor  widow  who  had  to  contest  with  a  powerful  adversary  before 
an  ignorant  or  covetous  judge,  did  not  doubt  the  success  of  her  cause,  when  she  had 
once  made  a  present  to  them  according  to  her  ability.  Some  gave  them  sweet- 
meats and  conserves,  others  pictures  and  ornaments  for  their  closets.  Several  char- 
itable persons  trusted  them  with  great  quantities  of  linen  and  woollen  cloth  to  dispose 
among  the  needy  that  were  ashamed  to  beg,  and  with  considerable  sums  of  money 
to  distribute  as  they  saw  convenient.  No  one  came  to  visit  them  empty-handed, 
and  their  future  canonization  was  as  firmly  believed  as  an  article  of  faith.  At  last 
the  credulity  of  the  people  ran  so  high,  that  they  came  to  consult  them  about  their 
doubtful  affairs  and  things  to  come.  Helen,  who  was  as  subtle  as  a  devil,  managed 
all  the  answers,  delivering  her  oracles  in  few  words,  and  those  capable  of  receiving 
different  interpretations.  Their  beds  were  mean  and  homely  ;  but  at  night,  with 
all  the  fine  furniture  a  man  could  desire,  that  loves  to  sleep  deliciously,  their  house 
being  plentifully  furnished  with  good  feather  beds,  fine  coverlids,  and,  in  short, 
with  all  sorts  of  movables  that  contribute  to  the  convenience  and  pleasure  of  life  : 
and  all  this  they  pretended  was  to  be  given  to  some  poor  widow,  whose  goods  had 
been  seized  in  execution,  or  to  furnish  some  young  woman's  house  who  had  married 
without  any  fortune.  Their  doors  were  shut  up  in  winter  at  five,  and  in  summer  at 
seven  o'clock,  as  punctually  as  in  a  well-regulated  convent :  and  then  Jack  was 
wound  up,  the  spits  turned  merrily  round,  the  capons  put  down  to  the  fire,  the  table 
handsomely  spread,  when  our  hypocritical  triumvirate  eat  heartily,  and  drank  plen- 
tifully to  their  own  and  the  healths  of  those  people  they  had  cheated.  Montufar  and 
Helen  lay  together,  for  fear  of  spirits,  and  their  footman  and  maid,  that  were  of  the 
same  complexion,  copied  so  pious  an  example.  As  for  the  good  Mendez,  she  al- 
ways lay  alone,  being  more  taken  up  with  contemplation  than  with  action  ever 
since  she  had  addicted  herself  to  the  black  art.  This  was  their  constant  practice, 
instead  of  employing  their  time  in  mental  prayer  or  in  doing  penance.  'Tis  no 
wonder  if,  living  so  jolly  a  life,  they  looked  plump  and  fat ;  all  the  city  blessed 
heaven  for  it,  and  were  mightily  surprised  that  persons  of  so  much  austerity  and 
self-denial  should  look  better  than  those  that  lived  in  luxury  and  ease.  For  the 
space  of  three  years  they  deceived  the  eyes  of  all  the  inhabitants  of  Seville,  and  by 
receiving  presents  from  everyone,  and  appropriating  to  their  own  use  the  alms  that 
pa-ssed  through  their  hands,  they  heaped  together  an  incredible  number  of  pistoles. 
All  good  success  was  ascribed  to  the  efficacy  of  their  prayers  :  they  stood  god- 
fathers to  all  children,  made  matches  for  all  the  city,  and  were  the  common  arbitra- 
tors of  differences.  At  last,  heaven  was  wearj'  of  conniving  any  longer  at  their 
impious  lives.  Montufar,  who  was  cholerick  in  his  temper,  used  frequently  to  beat 
his  valet,  who  could  not  bear  it,  and  had  quifted  his  service  a  hundred  times,  if 
Helen,  who  was  more  discreet  than  her  gallant,  had  not  prevented  it  by  appeasing 
him  with  fair  words  and  presents.  One  day,  having  drubbed  him  immoderately, 
for  little  or  no  reason,  the  boy  got  to  the  door,  and  blinded  by  his  passion,  ran  di- 
rectly to  the  magistrates  to  inform  against  these  three  hypocrites,  whom  the 
world  took  for  saints.  Helen's  diabolical  spirit  foretold  what  would  happen,  there- 
fore r.dvised  Montufar  to  run  off  with  all  the  gold  they  had  in  the  house  and  retire 
to  some  place  of  security  till  this  tempest,  which  threatened  them,  had  spent  itself. 
It  was  no  sooner  said  than  put  into  execution  ,  they  carried  off  the  most  valuable 
things,  and  walking  down  uie  street  as  unconcerned  as  if  they  had  dreaded  nothing, 
went  out  at  one  gate."  1 

Twenty  years  after  Tartuffe  had  been  played,  La  Bruy^re  added,  in  the 
sixth  edition  of  the  Caracteres,  the  portrait  of  Onuphre  the  hypocrite.  We 
give  it  here  below : 

'Translated  by  Mr.  Thomas  Brown,  Mr.  Savage,  and  others      London,  1727. 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.       367 

"  Onuphre  has  no  other  bed  but  a  cover  of  grey  serge,  but  he  sleeps 
upon  cotton  and  down ;  he  is  also  dressed  simply  but  comfortably.  I 
mean  that  he  wears  some  very  light  clothing  in  summer,  and  some  very 
soft  and  woolly  in  winter ;  he  wears  very  fine  shirts,  which  he  takes  very 
good  care  to  hide.  He  does  not  say  my  hairshirt  and  my  scourge;  on  the 
contrary,  he  would  pass  then  for  what  he  is,  a  hypocrite,  and  he  wishes  to 
pass  for  what  he  is  not,  for  a  devout  man.  It  is  true  that  he  acts  in  such 
a  manner  that  people  believe,  without  his  saying  so,  that  he  wears  a  hair- 
shirt,  and  that  he  flagellates  himself  There  are  some  books  lying,  all 
over  his  room,  accidentally.  Open  them,  they  are  The  Spiritual  Combat, 
The  Inward  Christian,  The  Holy  Year ;  other  books  are  under  lock  and 
key.  If  he  walks  through  the  town,  and  if  he  sees  from  afar  a  man  before 
whom  it  is  necessary  that  he  should  pretend  to  be  religious,  downcast  eyes,  a 
slow  and  modest  gait,  a  collected  air,  are  familiar  to  him  ;  he  plays  his  part. 
If  he  enters  a  church,  he  observes,  to  begin  with,  by  whom  he  can  be  seen, 
and,  according  to  what  he  has  discovered,  he  kneels  down  and  prays,  or  he 
neither  thinks  of  kneeling  down  or  of  praying.  If  a  good  man,  and  one  in 
authority,  draws  near  to  him,  who  can  see  and  hear  him,  he  not  only  prays 
but  is  lost  in  meditation ;  he  has  upheavings  of  the  spirit,  he  sighs  aloud ; 
but  if  the  good  man  goes  away,  the  latter,  who  sees  him  depart,  gets 
calmed  down,  and  no  longer  utters  a  sound.  Another  time  he  enters  a 
church,  makes  his  way  through  the  crowd,  chooses  a  place  where  he  can 
collect  his  thoughts,  where  everyone  can  see  how  he  humbles  himself.  If 
he  hears  courtiers  talking  or  laughing,  or  who  are  less  silent  in  church  than 
in  an  ante-chamber,  he  makes  more  noise  than  they  to  get  them  to  be 
silent ;  he  begins  again  his  meditation,  which  is  always  a  comparison  be- 
tween those  persons  and  himself,  and  by  which  he  does  not  lose.  He 
avoids  an  empty  and  solitary  church,  where  he  might  hear  two  masses, 
one  after  another,  and  a  sermon,  attend  vespers  and  compline, — all  this 
between  God  and  himself,  and  without  anybody  thanking  him  for  it.  He 
loves  the  parish  church ;  he  frequents  churches  where  there  are  a  great 
many  people ;  people  are  sure  not  to  come  there  for  nothing :  people  are 
seen  there.  He  chooses  two  or  three  days  in  the  year,  when,  without  any 
necessity  whatever,  he  fasts  or  mortifies  himself;  but  at  the  end  of  the 
winter,  he  coughs;  there  is  something  wrong  in  the  chest;  he  is  biHous; 
he  has  an  attack  of  ague,  people  entreat,  urge  him,  and  even  quarrel  with 
him,  so  that  he  should  not  keep  his  fasts,  when  he  has  begun  them,  and 
he  gives  way  out  of  complaisance.  If  Onuphre  is  named  an  umpire  in  a 
quarrel  between  relatives,  or  in  a  lawsuit  amongst  a  family,  he  is  on  the 
side  of  the  strongest,  I  mean  the  richest ;  and  he  cannot  persuade  himself 
that  a  man  who  has  much  wealth  can  be  in  the  wrong.  Ifheisona 
good  footing  with  a  rich  man,  who  is  ignorant  of  his  real  character,  whose 
parasite  he  is,  and  who  may  assist  him  very  much,  he  does  not  cajole  that 
rich  man's  wife  ;  he  makes  her  no  advances,  nor  a  declaration  of  his  love ; 
he  will  run  away,  he  will  leave  his  cloak  behind  him,  if  he  is  not  as  sure  of 
her  as  he  is  of  himself;  he  has  not  the  least  idea  of  employing  devotional 
phrases  to  seduce  her ;  he  does  not  employ  them  usually ;  but  on  set  pur- 
pose, and  when  they  can  be  useful  to  him,  and  never  when  they  would 
only  serve  to  make  him  very  ridiculous.  He  knows  where  to  find  more 
sociable  and  more  docile  females  than  the  wife  of  his  friend ;  he  does  not 
abandon  them  for  long,  even  if  it  should  only  be  to  have  it  said  that  he  has 
withdrawn  from  the  world  for  some  time.  And  who  could  have  any 
doubts  about  it,  when  they  see  him  make  again  his  appearance  with  an 
emaciated  countenance,  and  like  a  man  who  has  mortified  himself.     More- 


368  TARTUFFE;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE. 

over,  the  women  who  flourish  and  prosjjer  as  devotees  suit  him,  only  with 
this  small  difference,  that  he  neglects  those  who  have  grown  old,  and  that 
he  looks  after  the  young  ones,  and  amongst  those  the  most  beautiful  and 
the  best  shaped ;  that  is  his  attraction ;  they  go  away  and  he  goes  away ; 
they  return  and  he  returns ;  they  remain  and  he  remains ;  he  has  the 
consolation  of  seeing  them  in  every  place  and  at  every  hour.  Who  would 
not  be  edified  by  that?  They  are  pious  and  he  is  pious.  He  does  not 
forget  to  take  advantage  of  the  bhndness  of  his  friend,  and  of  the  way  he 
is  prepossessed  in  his  favour :  now  he  borrows  money  from  him  ;  again  he 
acts  in  such  a  manner  that  his  friend  offers  it  to  him  ;  his  friends  fall  foul 
of  him  because  he  has  no  recourse  to  them  when  he  is  in  want.  Some- 
times he  will  not  receive  a  farthing  without  giving  his  note  of  hand  for  it 
which  he  is  quite  sure  never  to  take  up.  Another  time  he  states,  and  with 
a  certain  intonation,  that  he  wants  nothing,  and  that  he  does  when  he  only 
wants  a  small  sum  ;  at  some  other  time  he  praises  publicly  the  generosity 
of  a  certain  man,  in  order  to  work  upon  his  friend's  honour,  and  to  induce 
him  to  put  down  a  very  large  sum  ;  he  does  not  think  of  accaparating  the 
whole  of  his  succession,  nor  of  obtaining  a  general  donation  of  all  his 
property,  above  all  if  the  question  is  to  take  them  away  from  a  son,  the 
lawful  heir.  A  devout  man  is  neither  a  miser,  nor  violent,  nor  unjust,  nor 
even  interested.  Onuphre  is  not  devout,  but  he  wishes  to  be  thought  so, 
and  through  a  perfect,  though  false  imitation  of  piety,  advances  his  inter- 
ests in  an  underhand  manner.  He  therefore  does  not  come  into  collision 
with  direct  heirs  ;  he  never  insinuates  himself  in  a  family  where  there  is  a. 
daughter  to  be  provided  for,  and  a  son  to  be  established ;  their  rights  are 
too  powerful  and  too  inviolable ;  they  cannot  be  infringed  without  public 
scandal,  and  that  he  fears ;  without  such  an  undertaking  coming  to  the 
ears  of  the  prince,  from  whom  he  hides  all  his  dealings,  for  fear  of  being 
discovered,  and  of  appearing  in  his  true  character.  He  plots  against  col- 
lateral heirs,  who  can  be  attacked  with  more  impunity  ;  he  is  the  terror  of 
male  and  female  cousins,  of  the  nephew  and  the  niece;  ihe  flatterer  and 
the  firm  friend  of  every  uncle  who  has  made  a  fortune.  He  pretends  to  be 
the  legitimate  heir  of  every  old  man  who  dies  rich  and  without  children ; 
and  the  latter  must  disinherit  him  if  he  wishes  his  relatives  to  receive  what 
he  leaves  behind.  If  Onuphre  does  not  find  an  opportunity  to  deprive 
them  wholly  of  it,  he  takes  at  least  a  good  part  of  it ;  a  little  slander,  less 
than  that,  a  trifling,  slighting  remark,  suffices  for  that  pious  design,  and 
such  a  talent  he  possesses  in  the  highest  degree  of  perfection ;  he  often 
considers  it  his  obligation  not  to  let  it  lie  by  uselessly ;  according  to  him  it 
is  our  duty  to  attack  certain  people ;  and  these  are  the  people  whom  he 
does  not  like,  whom  he  wishes  to  harm,  and  whose  spoils  he  longs  for.  He 
obtains  what  he  wishes  without  even  taking  the  trouble  of  opening  his 
mouth  ;  they  speak  to  him  of  Eudoxe,  he  smiles  or  sighs ;  they  ask  some 
more  questions,  they  insist  that  he  should  answer,  he  replies  nothing ;  and 
he  is  right,  he  has  said  enough." 

We  can  now  compare  La  Bruy&re's  careful  delineation  of  the  hypo- 
crite with  Moli^re's  masterly,  life-like  creation  of  him.  There  is  no  doubt, 
in  my  mind,  that  La  Bruy^re  wished  to  correct  his  master ;  the  mention 
he  makes  of  "  a  hairshirt  and  a  scourge,  of  a  daughter  to  be  provided 
for,  and  a  son  to  be  established,"  sufficiently  prove  this.  But  I  do  not 
think  he  has  succeeded.  La  Bruy^re  has  given  an  almost  photographic 
sketch  of  the  canting  hypocrite  such  as  he  appeared  in  1690  ;  he  has  de- 
scribed to  us  his  dress,  his  manners,  his  slang,  and  even  the  religious 
books  then  in  vogue  :  but  we  feel  all  the  time  that  Onuphre  only  pretends 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.       369 

to  be  religious,  because  it  was  then  the  fashion  to  be  so,  because  the  king 
gave  the  tone  to  the  courtiers  to  be  pious.  In  the  following  reign,  Onu- 
phre  would  have  been  most  probably  a  roue,  and  exchanged  his  cloak  of 
hypocrisy  for  a  velvet  jacket,  adorned  with  gold  lace ;  he  would  have  for- 
saken the  handsome  pious  young  devotees  to  go  and  make  his  appear- 
ance at  the  suppers  of  the  Regent.  Onuphre  is  not  a  man :  he  is  only  an 
automaton,  set  in  motion  by  every  blast  of  court  favour  or  disfavour  ;  he 
is  a  model  of  a  time-serving  couitier.  That  LaBruyfire  may  have  thought 
so  himself  is  not  impossible,  for  Onuphre 's  portrait  is  to  be  found  in  the 
chapter  on  Fashion  amongst  the  delineations  of  the  amateur  of  flowers, 
the  collector  of  engravings,  the  lover  of  birds ;  and  immediately  preced- 
ing it,  is  a  sketch  of  a  courtier.  If  the  real  hypocrite  had  been  limned, 
his  portrait  would  have  found  a  place  in  the  chapter  On  Man,  or  in  that 
On  yudgments. 

But  Moli^re  gives  us  the  hypocrite  by  nature,  the  man  who  would  be  a 
canting  scoundrel,  even  if  it  did  not  pay ;  who  cannot  help  being  so ; 
who  is  a  human  being,  and  therefore  not  perfect ;  who  is  a  man,  and  thus 
sensually  inclined ;  who  employs  certain  means  to  subdue  his  passions, 
and  to  become  a  ''  whited  sepulchre,"  but  who  gives  all  the  more  way  to 
them  when  he  imagines  that  he  can  do  so  with  impunity.  Even  from  a 
dramatic  point  of  view,  La  Bruy^re's  portrait  of  a  man  whom  nothing 
can  move,  who  is  always  prudent  and  circumspect,  is  only  possessed  by 
one  idea,  has  but  a  single  object  which  he  pursues,  and  who  covers  his 
vices  with  such  an  impenetrable  veil,  and  is  for  ever  so  much  on  his  guard 
that  he  can  never  be  caught  in  a  snare ;  would  not  make  a  character  fit 
for  the  stage,  and  would  disgust  an  audience.  Besides,  how  could  the 
arrant  hypocrite  be  punished  unless  he  fell  in  love,  and  that  with  the  wife 
of  his  benefactor,  for  otherwise  Orgon  might  perhaps  have  pided  him  still 
and  exclaimed  "  the  poor  man  1" 

Moli^re's  Tartuffe  is  the  hypocrite  of  all  ages  and  for  all  times,  who 
does  not  depend  on  the  meretricious  allurements  of  the  court  to  become 
one,  but  who  would  be  one,  I  am  afraid,  even  in  England,  and  at  the 
present  day,  Pecksniff  seems  to  me  to  be  a  relative  of  Tartuffe,  although 
his  cant  is  more  about  humanity,  and  less  about  religion.  But  I  imagine 
Tartuffe  to  have  been  a  man  of  a  rather  florid  complexion,  with  "  red  ears 
and  ruddy  lips,"  inclined  to  be  stout,  with  expressive  eyes,  and  very  beau- 
tiful, white,  plump  hands,  of  which  he  takes  great  care,  and  which  he  is 
very  fond  of  showing.  He  is  always  well  dressed  in  clothes  of  sombre 
hue  ;  his  linen  is  scrupulously  white  ;  his  manners  are  gentlemanlike  and 
insinuating ;  he  is  ever  polite,  but  can  be  firm,  and  shows  sometimes  that 
he  can  be  so  ;  he  is  slow  and  impressive  of  speech,  with  an  unctuous  or 
rather  oily  flavour ;  he  persuades  now  and  then  some  hysterical  females 
pf  defective  education,  but  oftener  terrifies  the  old  and  feeble-minded ;  he 
is  a  middle-aged  man,  of  rather  goodly  shape,  and  capable  of  inspiring 
one  of  those  semi-mystic,  semi-sensual  passions,  of  whose  baneful  existence 
evidence  crops  up  at  certain  periods  amongst  so-called  civilized  nations. 
He  certainly  never  can  have  been  the  low-bred,  sniffling,  caddish-looking, 
soddened.  pasty-faced  beadle,  which  is  generally  represented  as  his  proto- 
type on  the  stage.  If  Tartuffe  had  been  such  a  man,  he  would  not  have 
obtained  a  footing  at  Orgon's  house ;  and  might  have  entertained  the  idea 
of  courting  a  kitchen-wench  or  a  scullery-maid,  but  would  never  have 
dared  to  attempt  to  seduce  the  virtuous  and  lady-like  Elmire. 

It  has  been  stated  that  Moli^re.  in  delineating  Tartuffe.  intended  to  de- 
pict the  Abbd  de  Rouquette,  who  became  afterwards  Bishop  of  Autun. 
VOL.  II.  y 


370  TARTtJFFE;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

This  tovm  appears  to  have  been  unfortunate  in  its  episcopal  guides ;  for 
Talleyrand,  was  also  for  some  time  bishop  of  that  place.  But  the  identity 
of  the  Abbe  de  Rouquette  with  Tartuffe  is  more  than  doubtful,  and  rests 
on  a  tradition  that  M.  de  Guilleragues,  who  lived  in  the  hotel  of  the 
Prince  de  Conti  with  the  Abbe,  must  have  communicated  to  Molifere 
some  of  the  latter's  hypocritical  tricks.  According  to  others.  Tartuffe's 
adventure  with  Elmire  happened  to  the  Abbe  at  the  duchess  de  Lon^ue- 
ville's  house.  The  duchess  de  Longueville,  a  sister  of  the  great  Cond^, 
had,  at  the  time  Tartuffe  was  first  represented,  only  just  become  a 
widow,  and  was  already  forty-five  years  old,  whilst  the  Abbe  was  four 
years  younger.  Although,  therefore,  it  may  have  hapfjened  at  the 
duchess's  house,  it  is  very  unlikely  to  have  occurred  with  that  lady 
herself.  The  whole  story  appears  doubtful ;  for  at  the  death  of  the 
duchess,  her  relatives  chose  de  Rouquette  who,  in  the  meantime  had 
become  Bishop  of  Autun,  to  preach  her  funeral  sermon.  This  choice 
would  not  have  been  made  if  he  had  disgraced  himself  in  any  way  at 
the  noble  lady's  house.  The  Abbe  preached  so  well,  that  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  who  was  present,  wrote  to  her  daughter :  "He  was  not  Tar- 
tuffe, he  was  not  a  pantaloon,  but  an  eminent  prelate."  At  another  time, 
she  wrote  to  the  same :  "  We  were  obliged  to  go  and  dine  with  M.  d'.\u- 
tun.  The  poor  man!"  This  only  proves  to  my  mind  that  Madame  de 
Sevigne  thought  that  the  Abbe  was  like  Tartuffe,  but  is  no  proof  that  Mo- 
liere,  in  writing  this  comedy,  intended  to  hit  the  rather  worldly-minded 
Abbe,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a  great  intriguant,  and  to  have  preached 
sermons  which  he  did  not  write,  if  we  may  believe  the  following  epigram, 
which  circulated  at  that  time : — 

Sermons  penned  by  other  men, 

Roquette  preaches,  people  state  ; 

I,  who  know  where  they  are  bought. 

Say  they  are  his,  at  any  rate. 

Another  tradition,  which  rests  upon  even  fewer  grounds,  mentions  that 
Louis  XIV.,  one  evening  during  the  campaign  of  1662,  just  at  the  point 
of  going  to  dine,  advised  Perefixe,  Bishop  of  Rhodez,  who  had  been  the 
king's  teacher,  to  do  likewise.  As  it  was  a  fast-day,  the  bishop  said  he 
was  only  going  to  take  a  slight  meal.  When  he  had  retired,  the  king  saw 
one  of  the  bystanders  smiling ;  and  upon  his  asking  him  the  reason  of 
this,  the  latter  replied  that  His  Majesty  need  not  "be  uneasy  about  M.  de 
Rhodez,  and  then  told  what  he  had  seen  the  bishop  eat  for  his  dinner.  At 
the  mention  of  each  dish,  it  is  said  that  the  king  exclaimed  each  time, 
"  The  poor  man !"  and  that  Moli^re  was  present  at  this  scene,  and  after- 
wards reminded  Louis  XIV.,  of  it. 

I  can  only  say  that  all  these  traditions  seem  to  me  very  unlikely.  One 
thing  is  certain,  that  the  noun  Tartuffe  is  connected  with  the  old  French 
tniffe,  truffle,  a  truffle,  and  also  a  jest,  a  fib.  In  cognate  languages, 
in  the  Italian  comedia  dell'  arte,  we  find  Truffd  and  Truffaldino,  as 
rascally  sen'ants;  in  the  Venetian,  Tofolo  and  Tiritofolo,  a  stout  but 
small  knavish  servant;  in  the  Milanese  dialect,  we  have  Tartu ff ol ;  a 
dotard  as  well  as  a  truffle;  and  in  the  Neapolitan  tongue,  Taratufolo, 
a  simpleton.'    All  these  seem  to  be  connected  with  the  low  Latin  word 

*It  is  odd  that  fun^s.  in  Latin,  a  mushroom,  also  means  "a  dolt ;"  so  the  Ital- 
ian, zucca,  a  pumpkin,  is  employed  in  the  same  way.  The  French,  iin  melon,  un 
concombre ,  un  corn'ckon.  a  girkin,  and  une  citronille,  a  pumpkin,  all  vegetables 
which  are  watery  and  faintin  taste,  are  often  used  to  characterize  a  person  of  weak 
intellect. 


TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  371 

trnffactor,  deceiver,  with  the  augmentative  tra :  hence  trattifar,  eupho- 
nically  tratuffar.  Perhaps  Moliere  may  have  thought  of  some  imaginary 
connection  between  the  svipposed  erotic  powers  of  the  truffle,  and  the 
amaliveness  of  the  hypocritical  title-role  of  his  play ;  but,  in  any  case, 
he  could  have  found  the  name  tartuffo  in  //  Malmantile  racquistato,  a 
facetious  Italian  poem  by  Lorenzo  Lippi,  which  circulated  in  manu- 
script in  France,  long  before  Tartuffe  was  performed.  The  author  of 
the  Observations  sur  tine  comedie  de  Aloliere  (see  Introductory  Notice  to 
Don  yuan,  which  appeared  after  Tartuffe's  first  three  acts  had  been 
represented  on  the  sixth  day  of  the  Pleasure  of  the  Enchanted  Island, 
always  calls  the  hero  of  the  piece  Tartouffle.  Montufar,  the  chief  cha- 
racter in  Scarron's  tale.  The  Hypocrites,  probably  from  the  Spanish  tiifo, 
vapour,  may  also  have  partly  led  Moliere  to  use  the  name  of  his  hero.  In 
an  old  French  translation  of  Platina's  De  Honesta  Voluptate,  published 
in  1505,  truffe  and  tartuffe  are  used  as  synonymous  words  for  hypo- 
crites ;  and  Moliere,  in  his  first  petition  to  the  King,  speaks  of  the  tar- 
tuffes,  meaning  the  impostors, — not  using  the  word  as  a  personal,  but 
as  a  generic  name. 

We  have  already  said  that  the  first  three  acts  of  Tartt/ffe  were  first 
performed  at  Versailles,  on  the  12th  of  May  1664,  and  that  the  king 
forbade  it  to  be  given  to  the  public ;  for,  in  the  official  Gazette  of  the 
17th  of  the  same  month,  we  find: — "This  great  monarch  is  careful  to 
cut  off  all  the  seeds  of  division  in  the  Church,  and  none  of  his  prede- 
cessors bore  ever  more  gloriously  the  title  of  its  Eldest  Son,  which  he 
keeps  up  by  that  delicacy  which  he  shows  for  everything  which  regards 
it,  as  he  has  shown  it  lately  by  his  prohibiting  the  performance  of  a 
comedy,  called  The  Hypocrite,  which  His  Majesty,  piously  enlightened 
in  everything,  judged  absolutely  injurious  to  religion,  and  capable  of 
producing  very  dangerous  effects." 

The  King  was  staying  at  Fontainebleau  from  the  i6th  of  May  until 
the  13th  August  of  the  same  year  (1664),  and  it  was  during  that  time 
that  the  Vicar  of  St.  Barthelemy,  Pierre  Roul^s  (see  Prefatory  Memoir, 
Vol.  1.,  presented  to  the  King  his  pamphlet:  Le  Roi  glorieux  au  monde, 
OH  Louis  XIV.,  le  plus  glorieux  de  tons  les  rois  du  motide.  In  this  pam- 
phlet, which  is  full  of  flattery — I  had  nearly  said  idolatry — of  Louis 
XIV.,  Moliere  is  attacked.  I  shall  give  first,  as  a  curiosity,  a  passage 
in  which  the  King  is  "sufficiently  bespattered  with  praise:  "There  are 
certainly,  on  the  whole  earth  we  live  on,  sufficient  kings,  but  few  who 
are,  and  who  can  be  qualified,  and  really  be  called  glorious  kings. 
But  amongst  all,  and  even  if  they  should  be  numberless,  Louis  XIV., 
who  reigns  in  France,  has  the  happiness  and  glory  of  belonging  to  them. 
And  to  know  that  he  is  in  that  position,  and  to  be  convinced  of  hon- 
ouring him  with  respect  in  this  supreme  and  royal  quality  and  dignity, 
what  else  is  necessary  but  to  behold  his  grandeur  and  glory,  the  lustre 
and  the  brilliant  splendour  of  his  virtues,  the  lofty  elevation  of  his 
power,  and  his  very  great  merits,  and  the  esteem  in  which  they  are 
held,  or  otherwise  to  measure  him  by  his  countenance ;  but  I  make  a 
mistake,  by  the  highest  perfection  amongst  all  the  other  kings  of  the 
whole  world.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  comparisons  are  odious,  that  it 
is  not  a  title  to  consideration,  nor  a  very  glorious  advantage  to  be  grand 
and  eminent,  only  because  others  are  disparaged  and  valued  less  highly. 
I  desire,  therefore,  not  to  raise  the  lofty  and  eminent  glory  of  Louis  XIV., 
by  despising  and  lowering  every  one,  but  by  this  characteristic  that  he  has 
the  honour  of  being  the  master  and  the  sovereign  of  all  things,  which, 


372  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 

without  being  idolaters,  we  worship  and  reverence  publiciy  in  his  royal 
Majesty,  because  he  is  a  terrestrial  god  and  a  divine  man,  without  exam- 
ple and  without  equal,  having  nothing  to  struggle  against  or  to  dispute 
with  except  himself." 

I  think  this  laudation  is  sufficiently  nauseous.  Let  us  see  now  what 
this  pious  vicar  has  to  say  for  Moli^re  : — "  A  man,  or  rather,  a  demon  in- 
carnate and  dressed  like  a  man,  the  greatest  unbeliever  and  free-thinker 
that  ever  existed  even  in  past  ages,  possessed  sufficient  impiety  and 
abomination  to  draw  out  of  his  diabolical  mind  a  play  quite  ready  to  be- 
come public,  in  having  it  represented  upon  a  stage,  to  make  a  mockery 
of  the  whole  Church,  to  contemn  the  most  sacred  character  and  the  most 
divine  function  and  that  which  is  most  holy  in  the  Church.  .  .  .  He  de- 
served for  this  sacrilegious  and  impious  attempt  a  final,  exemplary  and 
public  punishment,  and  even  the  stake,  a  fore-runner  of  the  fires  of  hell, 
to  expiate  so  heinous  a  crime  of  high-treason  against  Heaven,  which  aims 
at  destroying  the  Catholic  religion,  in  criticising  and  jeering  at  its  most 
religious  and  holy  practices.  .  .  .  But  His  Majesty,  after  having  given 
him  a  severe  reprimand,  and  animated  by  a  just  wrath,  has,  by  a  trait  of 
his  usual  clemency,  in  which  he  imitates  the  essential  gentleness  of  God, 
condescendingly  forgiven  him  his  insolence  and  his  demoniacal  boldness, 
in  order  to  give  him  time  to  rejjent  of  it  publicly  and  solemnly  all  his  life. 
And  to  stop  successfully  the  exposition  and  the  sale  of  his  impious  and 
irreligious  production,  and  of  his  licentious  and  free-thinking  poetry,  he 
has  commanded  him,  under  pain  of  death,  to  suppress  and  tear  up,  to 
hush  up  and  burn  all  that  was  written  of  it." 

Although  this  language  was  pretty  strong,  it  did  not  prevent  the  troupe 
of  Moli^re  from  being  invited  to  come  to  Fontainebleau,  to  contribute  to 
the  amusements  presented  to  Monsignore  Chigi,  the  Pope's  Nuncio. 
They  remained  there  from  the  21st  of  July  to  the  13th  of  August,  and  it 
appears  that,  during  that  time,  Molifere  read  to  the  Nuncio  Tartuffe,  and 
that  the  Nuncio  did  not  disapprove  of  it.  He  then  presented  to  Louis 
XIV.,  the  following  i>etition  : 

Sire,* — The  aim  of  comedy  being  to  correct  men  by  amusing  them,  I  thought 
that  in  the  situation  which  I  occupy,*  I  could  not  do  better  than  attack  by  pictures 
full  of  ridicule  the  vices  of  my  age ;  and  hypocrisy  being  no  doubt  not  only  one  of 
the  most  usual  among  them,  but  also  one  of  the  most  annoying  as  well  as  most  dan- 
ger jUS,  I  had  the  idea,  Sire,  that  I  would  be  rendering  not  a  small  service  to  the  honest 
people  of  your  kingdom,  if  I  wrote  a  comedy  that  should  decry  the  hypocrites,  ex- 
pose plainly  the  studied  grimaces  of  those  ultra-godly  people,  all  the  covert  scoun- 
drelism  of  these  false  coiners  of  devotion,  who  try  to  inveigle  people  with  their 
counterfeit  zeal,  and  their  sophistic  charity. 

I  have  constructed  this  comedy.  Sire,  with  all  the  care,  and,  as  I  believe,  with 
all  the  circumspection  demanded  by  the  delicacy  of  the  material ;  and  the  better 
to  preserve  the  esteem  and  respect  due  to  the  truly  pious,  I  have  distinguished  as 
much  as  I  could  the  character  which  I  had  to  sketch.  I  have  left  no  room  for 
equivocal  interpretation,  I  have  left  out  everything  that  could  confound  the  good 
with  the  bad,  and  have  employed  in  this  picture  only  those  express  colours  and 
essential  traits  which  would  serve  to  reveal,  at  the  first  glance,  the  veritable  and 
downright  hypocrite.  Nevertheless,  all  my  precautions  have  been  useless.  Peo- 
ple have  taken  advantage.  Sire,  of  the  delicacy  of  your  feelings  on  the  subject  of 
religion,  and  have  succeeded  in  probing  you  in  your  only  vulnerable  spot,  I  mean 

3  This  petition  is  a  reply  to  the  pamphlet  Le  Roi glorieux  au  monde,  and  is 
often  quoted  by  de  Rochemont  in  his  Observations  (see  Introductory  Notice  to 
Don  Juan,  Vol.  II.) 

*  This  situation  was  that  of  manager  of  the  troupe  of  the  theatre  of  the  Palais 
Royal. 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  373 

your  respect  for  sacred  things.  The  Tartuffes  on  the  sly,  have  been  artful  enough 
to  find  grace  in  your  Majesty's  sight;  in  short,  the  originals  have  caused  the  copy 
to  be  suppressed,  no  matter  how  innocent  and  startlingly  like  it  may  have  been. 

Great  as  was  the  blow  caused  by  the  suppression  of  this  work,  my  misfortune  has 
been  mitigated  by  the  manner  in  which  your  Majesty  explained  yourself  on  this 
subject ;  =  and  I  have  seen,  Sire,  that  all  cause  of  complaint  was  taken  away  from 
me,  when  you  declared  kindly  that  you  found  nothing  ODJectionable  in  this  comedy, 
which  you  nevertheless  forbade  me  to  produce  in  public. 

But  notwithstanding  this  glorious  declaration  of  the  greatest  and  most  enlightened 
monarch  in  the  universe,  even  notwithstanding  the  approbation  of  Monsignor  the 
Nuncio,  and  the  majority  of  our  prelates,  who,  when  I  privately  read  my  work  to 
them,  have  all  fully  concurred  in  the  sentiments  of  your  Majesty, — notwithstanding 
all  this,  I  say,  a  book  has  been  published  which  openly  contradicts  all  those  august 
testimonies. "  Your  Majesty  may  say  what  he  pleases,  the  Nuncio  and  the  pre- 
lates may  proclaim  their  judgment  as  much  as  they  like,  my  comedy,  without 
having  even  been  seen,  is  diabolical,  and  as  diabolical  is  my  brain;  I  am  a  demon  incar- 
nate, and  dressed  like  a  man,  an  unbeliever,  an  impious  wretch,  deserving  of  exem- 
plary punishment.  It  is  not  enough  that  the  flames  expiate  my  offence  in  public,  I 
should  be  quit  of  it  at  too  cheap  a  rate ;  the  charitable  zeal  of  this  gallant  and  good 
man  hardly  cares  to  stop  there  ;  he  requires  that  I  shall  find  no  mercy  at  the  hands 
of  God,  he  insists  absolutely  that  I  must  be  damned  ;  that  is  a  settled  affair. 

This  book,  Sire,  has  been  presented  to  your  Majesty,  and  you  can  yourself  doubt- 
less judge  how  annoying  it  is  to  me  to  see  myself  daily  exposed  to  the  insults  of 
these  gentlemen  ;  the  harm  these  slanders  do  me  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  whether 
they  are  to  be  meekly  borne,  and  the  interest  I  have  to  rid  myself  of  its  imposture, 
and  to  show  the  public  that  my  comedy  is  nothing  less  than  what  it  is  said  to  be. 
I  shall  not  say  anything,  Sire,  about  the  claims  due  to  my  reputation,  or  to  the 
justification  of  the  innocence  of  my  work  in  the  eyes  of  the  world ;  enlightened 
Kings,  like  you,  have  no  need  to  have  people's  wishes  pointed  out  to  them  ;  they 
perceive,  like  God,  our  wants,  and  know  better  than  we  do,  what  they  ought  to 
grant  us.^  It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  place  my  interests  in  your  Majesty's  hands, 
and  to  await  respectfully  from  him.  whatever  he  may  be  pleased  to  ordain  on  the 
subject. 

Although  the  King  did  not  yet  allow  Tartuffe  to  be  performed  in 
public,  the  first  three  acts  were  played,  by  order  of  Monsieur,  the  only 
brother  of  the  King,  on  the  25th  of  September  1664,  at  Villers-Cotterets, 
before  the  King  and  the  whole  court ;  and  the  complete  comedy,  in  five 
acts,  was  played  at  Raincy,  the  seat  of  the  Princess  Palatine,  and  by 
order  of  the  Prince  de  Cond6,  on  the  29th  of  November  1664,  and  on  the 
8th  of  November  of  the  following  year.  During  all  this  time  Moli^re's 
influence  at  court  had  been  strengthened ;  the  Misanthrope  had  been 
successfully  played ;  he  had  contributed  during  the  winter,  1666-1667, 
several  comedies  to  the  Ballet  des  Muses,  and  when,  in  the  summer  of 
the  latter  year,  the  King  set  out  for  his  campaign  in  Flanders,  Molifere, 
reckoning  upon  a  verbal  authorization  of  Louis,  brought  out  Tartuffe 
at  the  Palais-Royal,  on  the  5th  of  August  1667,  under  the  name  of  The 
Impostor.  Tartuffe  became  a  layman,  and  was  called  Panulphe  ;  he  wore 
a  little  hat,  long  hair,  a  large  collar,  a  sword,  and  lace  all  over  his  coat ; 
whilst  some  passages  were  altogether  suppressed  or  toned  down.  But 
the  next  day  the  play  was  forbidden  by  order  of  the  first  President  of 
the  Parliament  of  Paris,  M.  de  Lamoignon.  On  the  8th  of  the  same 
month,  two  actors  of  MoliSre's  troupe,  La  Grange  and  La  Thorillifere, 
started  off  in  a  post-chaise,  in  order  to  go  and  present  to  the  King, 
who  was  at  that  time  before  Lille,  the  following  petition  : 

6  See  Introductory  Notice  to  the  Princess  of  Elis. 

'This  refers  to  Le  Roi gloricux  au  monde,  and  Moliere  quotes  all  the  phrases 
from  that  pamphlet. 
1  Moliere  imitates  here  the  language  of  his  accuser  de  Roules. 


374  TARTUFFE  ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

SiRB, — It  is  a  very  bold  step  on  my  part  to  come  and  trouble  a  great  monarch  in 
the  midst  of  his  glorious  conquests  ;  but  in  the  position  in  which  1  am,  Sire,  where 
am  I  to  find  protectiun  except  in  the  place  where  I  have  come  to  seek  for  it?  And 
what  am  I  to  invoke  against  the  authority  of  the  power  that  overwhelms  me,  unless 
it  be  the  source  of  that  power  and  authority,  the  just  dispenser  of  the  absolute  com- 
mands, the  sovereign  judge,  and  the  master  of  all  things. 

Until  now,  Sire,  my  comedy  has  not  met  with  "your  Majesty's  favor.  In  vain 
have  I  produced  it  under  the  title  of  The  Impostor,  and  dis*guised  the  personage 
beneath  the  garb  of  a  man  of  the  world  ;  8  vainly  have  I  given  him  a  small  hat, 
long  hair,  a  great  collar,  a  sword,  and  lace  over  the  whole  of  his  dress;  in  vain 
have  I  modihed  it  in  several  places,  and  carefully  cut  out  everything  that  I  deemed 
could  furnish  the  shadow  of  a  pretext  to  the  celebrated  originals  of  the  portrait  I 
wanted  to  paint ;  all  has  been  of  no  use.  The  cabal  has  re-awoke  at  the  simple 
conjectures  which  they  may  have  had  about  the  matter.  They  have  found  means 
to  surprise  minds,  who,  on  any  other  subject,  profess  never  to  allow  themselves  to 
be  surprised. 9  No  sooner  did  my  comedy  appear  than  it  has  found  itself  struck 
down  by  the  blow  of  a  power  which  is  entitled  to  respect ;  and  all  I  have  been  able 
to  do  in  this  struggle,  in  order  to  save  myself  from  the  burst  of  this  tempest,  was  to 
say  that  your  Majesty  had  had  the  kindness  to  allow  me  the  representation  and 
that  I  did  not  think  there  was  any  need  to  ask  this  permission  from  others,  seeing 
that  it  was  your  decree  only  which  had  prohibited  it. 

I  doubt  not.  Sire,  that  the  people  whom  1  depict  in  my  comedy  will  employ 
many  artifices  with  your  Majesty,  and  will  try  to  enlist  among  their  party  mar.y 
truly  pious,  who  are  the  more  susceptible  of  being  deceived,  because  they  juc'ge 
others  by  themselves.  They  have  the  knack  of  investing  their  intentions  with 
most  beautiful  colours.  Whatever  face  they  may  put  upon  them,  it  is  not  reidly 
God's  interest  that  causes  them  to  move  in  this  ;  they  have  shown  this  sufficiently 
w^ell  in  the  comedies  which  they  have  allowed  so  often  to  be  played  in  public  with- 
out saying  a  word  about  them.  Those  only  attacked  piety  and  religion,  for  which 
they  care  very  little  ;  but  this  one  attacks  and  shows  them  up  personally,  and  that  is 
whatthey  cannot  tolerate. 10  They  cannot  forgive  me  for  havirg  urmasked  their  im- 
postures to  the  eyes  of  the  whole  world ;  and,  doubtlessly,  they  will  not  fail  to  tell 
your  Majesty  that  everybody  has  been  scandalized  at  my  ccmedy.  But  the  real 
truth.  Sire,  is  that  all  Paris  has  only  been  scandalized  at  the  prohibition  of  it;  that 
the  most  scrupulous  have  found  the  representation  of  it  most  salutary  ;  and  that 
people  have  been  astonished  that  persons  of  such  well-kn<  wn  probity  should  show 
such  great  deference  for  those  whom  the  whole  world  ought  to  hold  in  horror,  and 
should  be  so  opposed  to  that  true  piety  which  they  profess. 

I  await  respectfully  the  verdict  which  your  Majesty  will  deign  to  pronounce 
upon  this  subject;  but  certain  is  it.  Sire,  that  I  must  no  longer  think  of  writing 
comedies,  if  the  TartufFes  should  gain  the  day,  becau.se  they  will,  thrtugh  this,  as- 
sume the  right  to  prosecute  me  more  than  ever,  and  find  something  to  cavil  at 
in  the  most  innocent  things  that  will  fall  from  my  pen. 

May  your  kindness.  Sire,  vouchsafe  to  protect  me  against  their  venomous  hatred  I 
and  permit  me  to  hope  that  at  your  return  from  so  glorious  a  campaign,  I  may  be 
able  to  divert  your  Majesty  after  the  fatigues  of  your  conquests,  to  provide  you 
with  some  ianocent  pleasures  after  such  noble  works,  and  to  make  the  monarch 
smile  who  caused  all  Europe  to  tremble,  n 

*  This  pre-supposes  that  Moliere  intended  to  make  originally  a  clergyman  of 
TartuflTe. 

8  Moliere  speaks  here  of  the  first  President  of  the  Parliament  of  Paris,  M.  de 
Lamoignon,  who  had  forbidden  Tartuffc  to  be  played. 

10  This  phrase  is  nearly  word  for  word  what  the  Prince  de  Conde  replied  to  Louis 
XIV.  with  regard  to  Scarajnouch,  a  hermit.  In  the  preface  to  Tartuffe,  which 
was  printed  two  years  after  this  petition  had  been  presented,  Moliere  names  the 
Prince  (see  page  143). 

II  The  following  is  the  mode  in  which  the  Registres  de  la  Coniidie-Francaise, 
Csee  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Iin-hromptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  V\  record  the  pre- 
sentation of  this  petition  :  "The  following  day,  the  6th,  a  tipstaff,  from  the  Court 
of  Parliament,  came  in  the  name  of  the  first  President,  M  de  Lamoignon,  to  forbid 
the  piece.  The  8th.  the  Sieur  de  la  Thorilliere  and  I.  de  la  Grange,  started  by 
post  from  Paris  to  obtain  an  audience  from  the  King  respecting  said  prohibit.  His 
Majesty  was  at  the  siege  of  Lille  in  Flanders,  where  we  were  very  well  received. 
Monsieur  gave  us  his  protection  as  usual,  and  His  Majesty  sent  us  word  that,  at 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.       375 

On  the  nth  of  August  of  the  same  year  (1667)  there  appeared  an  order 
of  Hardouin,  Archbishop  of  Paris,  addressed  to  all  the  vicars  and  curates 
of  Paris  and  the  suburbs,  "  forbidding  all  persons  of  our  diocese  to  repre- 
sent, read,  or  hear  read  the  above  mentioned  comedy  (^Tartuffe),  either 
publicly  or  privately,  under  any  name  or  pretext  whatever,  and  that  un- 
der pain  of  excommunication."  On  the  20th  of  the  same  month,  there 
was  published  a  Lettre  sur  la  cotnedle  de  l' Impaste ur,  which  has  sometimes 
been  attributed  to  Moliere  himself,  but  which  bears  no  marks  of  his  style 
or  of  his  clearness  of  expression.  It  is  possible,  however,  that  one  of 
his  friends  may  have  written  it,  and  brought  forward  some  of  the  authors 
arguments,  but  not  in  Moliere  s  words.  This  letter,  which  is  rather  pro- 
lix, begins  with  a  careful  and  interesting  analysis  of  the  play,  well  worth 
reading,  even  at  the  present  time,  and  which  shows  the  alterations  which 
it  underwent  since  its  first  representation,  and  ends  with  two  reflections — 
the  first,  that  some  people  think  that  the  religious  subjects  should  never 
be  mentioned  on  the  stage.  The  author  combats  this  opinion  by  stating 
that  "  religion  is  only  the  perfection  of  reason,  at  least  as  regards  morality ; 
that  it  purifies  and  elevates  it,  that  it  dispels  only  the  darkness  which  sin 
has  spread  in  the  place  where  it  dwells  ;  in  short,  that  religion  is  only  a 
more  perfect  reason."  He  further  argues  that  though  "religion  has  its 
places  and  times  fixed  for  its  sacrifices,  its   ceremonies,  and  its  other 

mysteries its  truths,  expressed  in  words,  belong  to  all  times  and 

all  places  ;"  that  the  ancients  never  scrupled  to  produce  their  gods  upon 
the  stage,  and  that  in  early  times  Passion-plays  were  represented.  His 
second  reflection  is  that  this  comedy  has  given  a  fatal  blow  to  what  is 
called  "  solid  gallantry,"  and  that  "though  preachers  thunder  against  it, 
confessors  reprove  it,  pastors  threaten,  well  constituted  minds  lament  it, 
parents,  husbands,  and  masters  incessantly  watch  over  it,  and  labour  con- 
tinually and  strenuously  in  vain  to  check  the  impetuous  torrent  of  impu- 
rity which  desolates  France  ;  it  is,  however,  considered  ridiculous  amongst 
fashionable  people  not  to  be  carried  away  by  it ;  and  that  some  glory  not 
more  in.  loving  incontinency  than  others  in  reproving  it." 

Lille  surrendered  on  the  27th  of  August.  Louis  XIV.  returned  to  Saint 
Germain  on  the  7th  of  September  ;  but  no  permission  was  given  to  play 
Tartuffe,  and  on  the  2Sth  of  September,  1667,  the  theatre  of  the  Palais- 
Royal  opened  with  The  Misanthrope.  But  during  the  last  months  of  the 
year,  Moliere  did  not  play.  I  suppose  he  exemplified  the  truth  of  the 
saying,  "  Hope  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick."  He  played  again,  how- 
ever, in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1668,  had  Amphitryon  performed  on 
the  13th  of  January,  George  Dandin  and  The  Afiser  in  the  same  year. 
At  last,  after  two  years'  waiting,  and  after  Tartuffe  had  been  read  repeat- 
edly at  the  houses  of  the  principal  nobility  and  gentry,  and  been  played 
anew,  on  the  20th  of  September,  1668,  at  Chantilly,  the  seat  of  the  Prince 
de  Conde,  in  the  presence  of  Monsieur  and  his  wife,  permission  was 
granted  to  play  it ;  and  on  the  gth  of  February,  1669,  it  appeared  for  the 
first  time  before  ;lhe  public.  That  very  day,  Moliere  sent  to  the  King  the 
following  petition : — 

SiRK. — A  most  respectable  physician,'^  whose  patient  I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

his  return  to  Paris,  he  would  have  the  comedy  of  Tartuffe  examined,  and  that  we 
should  play  it.  After  this,  we  came  back.  The  journey  cost  a  thousand  francs  to 
the  company,  They  did  not  play  during  our  voyage,  and  we  resumed  acting  the 
25th  September. 

12  His  name  was  Mauvillain,  according  to  Grimarest.  It  was  in  speaking  of 
Mauvillain  that  Louis  XIV.  said  one  day  to  Moliere:  "You  have  got  a  physician. 


376 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 


promises  me,  and  will  bind  himself  by  a  legal  act,  executed  before  a  notary,  to 
make  me  live  thirty  years  longer  if  I  can  procure  him  a  favour  of  your  Majesty. 
In  answer  to  his  promise,  I  have  told  him  that  I  do  not  want  as  much,  and  that  I 
would  be  satisfied  if  he  would  only  promise  me  not  to  kill  me.  This  favour.  Sire,  is  a 
canonry  in  your  royal  palace  of  Vincennes,  vacant  through  the  death  of  .  .  . 

May  I  still  venture  to  ask  this  favour  of  your  Majesty,  the  very  day  of  the  great 
resurrection  of  Tartuffe,  resuscitated  by  your  kindness  ?  I  am,  through  this  first 
favour,  reconciled  with  the  devotees :  and  through  the  second,  I  shall  be  reconciled 
with  the  doctors.  For  me  it  is,  no  doubt,  too  many  favours  at  one  time,  but  per- 
haps it  is  not  too  many  for  your  Majesty ;  and  1  await,  with  a  little  respectful  ex- 
pectation, the  answer  to  my  petition. 

The  Tartuffe  was  a  great  success,  and  was  played  nearly  forty-four  con- 
secutive times  at  the  Palais-Royal,  before  crowded  houses,  besides  five 
times  at  noblemen's  seats. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  1669,  appeared  a  little  piece,  in  one  act,  and  in 
verse,  called  La  Critique  du  Tartuffe,  which  seems  never  to  have  been 
played,  and  preceded  by  a  satire,  also  in  verse,-  in  which  Pradon,  the 
great  enemy  of  Boileau,  appears  to  have  had  a  hand.  In  it,  is  stated 
that  the  great  success  of  Molifere's  play  was  owing  to  its  having  been  for- 
bidden so  long.  In  the  Critique  itself,  it  is  said  that  "  he  steals  from  a 
thousand  authors,  Spanish  nonsense,  but  the  age  allows  it,  and  in  spite  of 
all  my  sense  ;  the  poor  man !  .  .  .  I  pardon  him." 

The  storms  that  were  now  raised  against  Tartuffe  originated  chiefly 
with  the  clergy.  Bourdaloue,  in  his  sermon  for  the  seventh  Sunday  after 
Easter — preached  in  1669 — pretends  that  "  as  true  and  false  piety  have  a 
great  number  of  actions  in  common,  and  as  the  external  appearances  of 
both  are  almost  wholly  similar,  the  traits  with  which  false  religion  are  de- 
picted harm  the  true  one."  This,  he  says,  happens  "  when  they  put  upon 
the  stage  and  expose  to  public  mockery  an  imaginary,  or  even,  if  you 
like,  a  real  hypocrite,  and,  by  portraying  him,  turn  into  ridicule  the 
holiest  things,  the  fear  for  the  judgments  of  God,  the  horror  against  sin, 
the  most  praiseworthy  and  the  most  Christian  practices  in  themselves."  ^' 

It  may  not  be  amiss  to  state  here  that  Bossuet,  in  the  Maximes  et  Re- 
flexions sur  la  Comedie,  which  were  written  in  answer  to  the  Lettre  d'un 

what  does  he  do  to  you?"  "Sire,"  answered  Moliere,  "we  chat  together;  he 
prescribes  remedies;  I  do  not  take  them,  and  I  get  better."  M.  Maurice  Ray- 
naud, in  les  Medecins  au  temps  de  Moliire,  says :  "  Mauvillain  had  numerous 
friends  amongst  the  Faculty.  He  showed  some  talents  as  professor  of  botany,  and 
later,  assisted  Fagon  in  the  Hortus  regius.  The  theses  defended,  whilst  he  was 
president,  and  inspired  by  him,  possess  generally  a  twofold  character.  They  eith- 
er are  in  praise  of  chemistry, — and  here  we  recognize  a  former  pupil  of  Montpel- 
lier,  wholly  devoted  to  the  prescribing  of  many  drugs,  praising  the  singular  virtues 
of  the  rhinoceros'  horn,  of  the  sapphire,  the  emerald,  the  besoar,  and  above  all,  of 
antimony,  and  making  great  fun  of  the  antiquated  partisans  of  senna  and  syrup 
of  pale  roses, — or  are  about  some  facetious  subject  like :  An  pallidis  virginunt 
coloribus  Venus,  giving  scope  to  all  kinds  of  equivocal  sayings  or  broad  jokes, 
told  in  very  good  Latin.  All  this  seems  to  show  us  a  man  of  very  independent 
character,  very  jovial,  very  irritable,  naturally  inclined  to  opposition,  and,  in  the 
quarrels  of  the  school  of  medicine,  acting  the  part  of  the  leader  of  a  party." 
Moliere  obtained  the  canonry  he  asked  for  the  son  of  this  physician.  Let  me  draw 
attention  to  the  free  and  easy  style  in  which  Moliere  addresses  the  King. 

'"Bourdaloue  seems  not  to  have  remembered  the  saying  of  Cleante  (Act  i.,  Scene 
6)  to  Orgon — "  There  are  hypocrites  in  religion  as  well  as  pretenders  to  courage. 

.  .  .  I  know  no  character  more  worthy  of  esteem  than  the  truly  devout,  nor 
anything  in  the  world  more  noble  or  beautiflil  than  the  holy  fervour  of  sincere 
piety  :  so  I  know  nothing  more  odious  than  the  whited  sepulchre  of  a  pretended 
zealot." 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  377 

Theologien,  translated  into  French  from  the  Italian  of  Father  Caffaro,  a 
Sicilian  Theatine  monk,  defending  the  stage,  and  which  Maximes  were 
only  published  in  1694,  twenty  years  after  Moli^re's  death,  attacks  Mo- 
li^re,  and  says :  "  we  must  then  consider  as  honest  the  impieties  and  infa- 
mies with  which  the  comedies  of  Moli^re  are  filled,  and  not  count  amongst 
the  pieces,  represented  in  the  present  times,  those  of  an  author  who  died, 
so  to  speak,  before  our  eyes,  and  who  even  now  fills  the  stage  with  the 
coarsest  equivoques,  with  which  the  ears  of  Christians  have  ever  been 
poisoned.  .  .  .  Only  think  if  you  will  dare  to  maintain  before  Heaven 
plays  in  which  virtue  and  piety  are  always  ridiculed,  corruption  always 
excused  and  always  made  laughable."  And  speaking  of  Molidre's  death, 
that  same  eminent  and  charitable  divine  says  :  "  Posterity  will  know,  per- 
haps, the  end  of  this  author  and  comedian,  who,  in  performing  his  Malade 
Imaginaire,  or  his  Medectit  par  force,  received  the  last  stroke  of  that  ill- 
ness  of  which  he  died  a  few  hours  later,  and  passed  from  the  jokes  upon 
the  stage,  amongst  which*  he  almost  breathed  his  last  sigh,  before  the  tribu- 
nal of  Him  who  has  said,  '  Woe  unto  you  that  laugh  now,  ye  shall 
weep.' " 

The  purpose  of  Moli^re's  play  is  most  powerfully  defended  by  himself 
in  his  preface ;  and  that  he  is  now  considered  as  having  been  right,  is 
proved  by  its  having  taken  a  permanent  place  on  nearly  every  European 
stage ;  at  least  the  stage  of  every  country  where  hypocrites  are  found, 
men  who  use  religion  as  a  cloak  in  order  to  further  their  own  personal  or 
carnal  designs. 

The  skill  with  which  Moli^re  has  drawn  the  hypocrite  of  his  time,  a 
sensualist  and  a  casuist,  and  the  way  in  which,  during  two  acts,  he  pre- 
pares and  leads  up  to  his  appearance,  are  very  great.  Tartuffe's  first  scene 
with  Elmire  is  described  in  plain,  but  not  indelicate,  language,  of  which 
the  truth  is  for  all  ages  ;  it  is  only  surpassed  by  Tartuffe's  second  scene 
with  Orgon's  wife,  in  which  he  begins  to  show  his  suspicion,  is  extremely 
cautious  and  guarded,  but  at  last,  blinded  by  passion,  falls  into  the  trap 
laid  for  him.  The  blasphemous  cant  used  by  the  hypocrite  when  he  bares 
what  he  calls  his  soul  in  order  to  poison  the  air  with  the  expression  of  his 
foul  wishes,  and  at  last  says  that  "  the  gfreatest  offence  of  sin  lies  in  scan- 
dal and  riot,  but  that  it  is  no  sin  if  you  sin  by  stealth,"  is,  and  will  be  true 
at  all  times.  The  credulity  of  Orgon  is  thought  by  some  to  be  very  im- 
probable ;  but  can  we  go  through  the  world  without  seeing  every  day 
examples  of  it  ?  If  there  were  no  credulous  people,  how  could  political, 
religious,  legal,  medical,  financial,  commercial,  and.  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
literary  quacks,  thrive  now-a-days  so  wonderfully  well !  The  impetuous 
Damis,  the  sensible,  clear-headed  Ceante,  the  plain-spoken  waiting-maid 
Dorine,  the  bigoted,  infatuated  Madame  Pemelle,  and  the  modest  Elmire, 
are  all  drawn  with  masterly  hand,  and  bear  the  impress  of  the  genius 
which  created  them. 

It  may  be  interesting  to  give  Napoleon  I.'s  opinion  about  Tartuffe,  and 
about  its  performance  having  been  prohibited  :  "  After  dinner,"  says  Las- 
Cases  in  the  Manorial  de  Saint  Helene,  "  the  Emperor  read  Tartuffe  to 
us,  but  he  was  so  tired  that  he  could  not  finish  it ;  he  put  down  the  book, 
and  after  having  paid  a  jiist  tribute  of  praises  to  Moli^re,  he  ended  in  a 
manner  we  did  not  expect,  and  said,  '  Certainly  the  whole  of  Tartuffe  is 
masterly  ;  it  is  one  of  the  best  works  of  an  inimitable  man  ;  however,  this 
comedy  has  such  a  character  that  I  am  not  at  all  astonished  that  its  ap- 
pearance upon  the  stage  has  been  the  subject  of  repeated  negotiations  at 
Versailles,  and  of  much  hesitation  in  the  mind  of  Louis  XIV.    If  I  am 


378  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

astonished  at  anything,  it  is  that  the  king  allowed  it  to  be  performed.  In 
my  opinion  it  presents  religious  feeling  under  colours  so  odious  ;  a  certain 
scene  is  so  decidedly  and  completely  indecent,  that,  as  regards  myself,  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  if  that  comedy  had  been  written  in  my  time, 
I  would  not  have  permitted  it  to  be  brought  out.'" 

M.  Eugene  Despois,the  learned  editor  of  Moliere's  plays,  now  in  course 
of  publication  in  Paris,  says  in  Le  Theatre  fratifais  sous  Louis  XIV.  that 
only  since  Don  yuan  and  Tartuffe  had  been  performed,  did  the  clergy 
act  rigidly  against  plays  and  actors,  and  brought  into  use  laws  which  had 
long  lain  dormant.  He  also  makes  in  the  same  book  the  following  remarks 
about  Tartuffe  :  "  Wiien  we  speak  of  this  immortal  picture  ot  hypocrisy, 
we  must  at  least  be  ourselves  sincere,  and  not  pretend  to  be  astonished  at 
the  storm  of  anger  raised  by  this  comedy.  It  might  be  indeed  supposed 
that  only  ihe  Tartuffes  were  irritated,  and  that  whoever  said  anything 
against  that  play  showed  himself  a  hypocrite  We  do  not  know  precisely 
what  were  the  intentions  of  Molifere,  and  if  he  himself  knew  them  ;  but 
could  he  have  any  illusion  about  the  import  of  his  play?  Nearly  all  those 
distinctions  which  Moliere  made  between  true  and  false  devotion,  and 
which  are  still  repeated  about  this  comedy,  disappeared ;  and  just  as  Mo- 
liere, in  attacking  much  less  serious  things,  the  pretended  Precieuses,  might 
indeed  expect  that  the  real  Precieuses  would  feel  themselves  attacked,  so 
this  twofold  caricature  of  a  sincere  religious  feeling  in  Orgon,  and  a  lying 
religious  feeling  in  Tartuffe  gave  rise  to  comparisons  which  Moliere  ought 
to  have  foreseen.  We  must  be  honest.  I  ask  every  sincere  believer,  whatever 
his  creed  may  be — religious  .philosophical,  or  political — would  he  be  glad  to 
see  an  opportunity  given  to  his  adversaries  of  confounding  too  easily  what 
may  be  respectable  in  the  convictions  of  some,  comical  or  odiousin  those 
of  others?  Let  us  abandon  for  a  moment  the  opinions  which  separate  us  ; 
there  is  one,  at  least,  which  unites  us  all,  at  least  in  theory — patriotism, 
which  has  also  its  Orgons  and  Tartuffes.  What  sincere  patriot  would  not 
see  an  inconvenience  in  the  pourtraying  of  the  abuses,  the  absurdities,  and 
even  the  hypocrisy  of  patriotism,  at  least  as  each  one  understands  it  for 
himself  and  his  party  ?  A  sincere  man,  if  he  is  accustomed  to  scrutinize 
his  conscience,  finds  it  difficult  enough  to  understand  the  ideas  of  others, 
which  he  does  not  share,  and  expects  to  meet  the  same  prepossessions, 
and  to  hear  the  name  of  calculated  hypocrisy  given  to  what  perhaps  is 
only  his  weakness  or  inconsistency.  Yes,  Bourdaloue  and  others,  just  as 
little  suspected  of  resembling  Tartuffe,  had  a  right  to  be  scandalized,  and 
to  consider  that  comedy  dangerous.  These  cursory  remarks  are  made  only 
to  excuse  prepossessions,  which  were  but  too  natural,  and  not  an  intole- 
rance, and  above  all  calumnies,  which  are  never  to  be  excused." 

I  shall  only  remark  on  this,  that  if  the  stage  is  intended  "  to  hold  the 
mirror  up  to  nature,"  there  can  be  no  harm  in  showing  up  hypocrites, 
either  social,  religious,  philosophical,  or  political.  The  real  honest  be- 
liever, the  true  philosopher,  or  the  sincere  patriot,  are  in  nowise  affected 
by  these  caricatures.  As  regards  tolerance  for  the  opinions  of  others 
which  we  do  not  share,  this  is  a  question  of  philosophy,  but  has  nothing 
to  do  with  comedy,  or,  if  it  has,  it  tends  to  destroy  all  comedv,  which  is 
nearly  always  the  exposition  of  a  folly,  or  of  a  vice  made  ridiculous;  or, 
as  Moliere  himself  says  in  77ie  Impromptu  of  Versailles}^  'the  business 
of  comedy  is  to  represent,  in  a  general  way,  all  the  faults  of  men.  and 
especially  of  men  of  our  day." 

'*See  The  Improuiptu  of  Versailles,  Vol.  I.,  Scene  iii.     See  also  what  Molier* 
Gays  in  the  same  play  about  the  subjects  for  Comedy,  p.  458. 


tartuffe;  qr,  the  hypocrite.        379 

Monsieur  Paul  Albert,  in  his  excellent  work,  La  Literature  francaise 
au  L7e  siecle,  says :  "  The  endings  of  Moli^re's  plays  have  often  been  criti- 
cised. As  a  general  rule,  he  does  not  seem  to  care  sufficiently  about 
them ;  they  arrive  a  little  at  haphazard,  and  because  the  play  must  have 
some  ending  or  other.  Some  even  are  very  far-fetched,  and  quite  con- 
trary to  all  rules  of  art,  as,  for  example,  the  intervention  of  the  exempt  i» 
Tartuffe.  I  do  not  know  how  the  critics  manage  to  get  Moliere  out  of 
this  scrape,  but  I  should  like  to  be  allowed  to  venture  upon  an  explana- 
tion. The  compulsory  ending  of  every  Tragedy  is  the  violent  death  of 
one  of  the  personages  ;  the  compulsory  ending  of  every  Comedy  is  a  mar- 
riage :  that  was  traditional,  and  exists  even  at  the  present  time.  As  mar- 
riage was  considered  a  happy  ending,  every  comedy  was  to  end  well. 
But  this  could  only  happen  when  the  hero,  the  very  centre  of  the  play, 
and  the  pivot  on  which  the  action  turns,  was  either  conquered,  or  would 
suddenly  change  his  determination.  In  reality,  he  appears  from  the  very 
first  scenes  as  the  most  serious,  the  only  obstacle  to  the  union  of  the 
youthful  lover  and  the  fair  object  of  his  love.  He  is  opposed  to  it  because 
his  ruling  passion,  his  egotism,  is  not  satisfied  by  it.  The  Citizen  who 
apes  the  Nobleman,  the  Miser,  the  Hypochondriac,  the  Blue  Stocking,  the 
Devotee,  repel  a  son-in-law  who  would  not  suit  their  daughter,  because 
they  wish  for  a  son-in-law  who  would  suit  themselves,  a  noble,  a  rich  man, 
a  physician,  a  pedant,  a  devotee.  How  can  one  conquer  that  resistance, 
destroy  that  tyranny  ?  Let  us  look  at  society :  How  are  things  going  on 
there  ?  At  the  present  time,  a  young  girl  who  is  persecuted  to  marry  some 
one  whom  she  does  not  love,  can  always  say  '  nay'  at  the  last  moment,  and 
the  law  protects  her  as  well  as  it  can  ;  as  soon  as  she  is  twenty  years  old, 
she  can  say  '  yes '  to  whomsoever  she  likes,  and  without  consulting  any 
one.15  It  was  not  thus  in  the  seventeenth  century ;  it  was  necessary  to 
yield  or  to  enter  a  convent.  This  was  one  of  the  darkest  sides  of  that  society 
so  much  lauded.  At  every  stage  of  it  we  find  despotism.  What  has  the 
comic  poet  to  do?  The  rules  of  his  art  compel  him  to  end  his  play  with 
a  marriage ;  but  the  reality  which  he  has  before  his  eyes  gives  the  lie  to 
the  theory.  Neither  Orgon,  M.  Jourdain,  Argan,  nor  Philaminte  yield ; 
the  young  girls  are  sacrificed.  Is  it  moreover  likely  that,  in  so  unequal  a 
struggle,  victory  should  belong  to  the  weaker?  The  parents  have  on  their 
side  authority,  custom,  the  inflexibility  of  a  foregone  conclusion,  the 
violence  of  an  exclusive  passion  ;  the  poor  child  has  only  her  tears  and 
entreaties;  very  eloquent,  it  is  true,  and  which,  for  one  moment,  move  the 
hearts  of  the  cruel  parents,  but  the  sacrifice  is  at  last  accomplished.  Be- 
tween the  theatrical  law,  which  prescribed  a  happy  ending,  and  the  social 
law,  which  presented  another,  Moliere  was  obliged  to  take  the  first ;  but 
he  took  it  so  unwillingly,  and  so  grumpily,  if  we  may  say  so,  that  we  can 
perceive  that  the  second  ending  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  only  true  one. 
Here  the  thinker  betrays  himself,  and  the  work,  outwardly  so  light  and 
lively,  discovers  gloomy  depths.  It  seems  that  Moli^  e  cries  to  us  :  '  Do 
not  believe  in  these  happy  endings  ;  you  see  that  they  are  unlikely,  impos- 
sible.    No,   the  officer  will  not  interfere  to  prevent   Orgon  from  being 

16  Before  the  first  French  Revolution,  marriage  in  France  could  take  place  only 
in  church,  and  the  priest  could  refuse  or  grant  it;  now  only  the  civil  marriage  is 
legal.  But  every  child,  whose  parents  are  alive,  must  have  their  permission  even 
now  C1877),  before  he  or  she  can  legally  marry;  and  only  when  a  young  man  is 
twenty-three  and  a  young  girl  twenty  years  old,  can  they  compel  their  parents  to 
give  them  that  permission,  by  sending  to  them  a  legal  officer  with  what  is  oddly 
enough  called  une  somtnation  resj>ectueuse. 


380       tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 

robbed,  or  Tartuffe  from  entering  the  house  into  which  she  has  stolen,  or, 
perhaps,  even  the  bed  of  the  daughter  of  his  victim.  Tartuffe  is  stronger 
than  Orgon ;  Tartuffe  will  triumph.  The  fire  from  heaven  will  not  fall 
upon  Don  Juan  ;  the  old  legend  says  so,  but  Don  Juan  will  quietly  con- 
tinue the  course  of  his  acts  of  scoundrelism,  only  he  will  put  on  the  mask 
of  religion,  and,  after  having  frightened  people,  he  will  edify  them  in  order 
to  deceive  them  better.  The  hypochondriac  will  not  become  a  physician  ; 
that  is  a  funny  excuse  which  I  have  imagined  to  rid  myself  of  a  difficulty  ; 
he  will  take  Diafoirus  as  his  son-in-law,  who  will  physic  him  for  nothing. 
The  Citizen  who  apes  the  Nobleman  will  not  be  taken  in  by  the  farce  of 
the  Mamamouchi :  he  will  give  his  daughter  to  a  friend  of  Dorante,  to 
some  ruined  nobleman,  who  will  ruin  him,  and  laugh  at  him.  Above  all, 
do  not  believe  that  Celimfene's  gallants  will  leave  her,  indignant  at  her 
coquettish  actions ;  Celimene  shall  always  have  plenty  of  followers ;  the 
more  treacherous  she  is,  the  greater  will  be  the  desire  to  please  her ;  Al- 
ceste  wU  come  back  the  first,  will  throw  himself  at  her  feet,  and  beg  her 
pardon  ;  she  will  only  know  solitude  when  she  will  be  old  and  wrinkled. 
Justice  is  not  of  this  world,  sincerity  is  not  of  this  world  ;  the  strong  and 
the  wicked  devour  the  good  and  the  meek.  Perhaps  a  poet  will  be  born 
one  day  who  will  dare  to  show  to  society,  society  such  as  it  is,  but  that  day 
is  yet  far  off!  I  moralize  and  make  fun  as  well  as  I  can,  about  marriage, 
which  is  everything;  in  two  hundred  years  people  will  moralize  still,  but 
will  no  longer  make  fun.  You  shall  behold  your  miseries  face  to  face, 
and  that  will  kill  all  joy  in  you.  Has  Moliere  gone  as  far  as  this  ?  I  do 
not  know.  Who  can  pretend  to  set  limits  to  the  man  who  has  written 
The  Misanthrope,  Tartuffe,  Don  yuan  f  For  the  last  two  hundred  years 
the  critics  turn  these  strange  works  in  and  out,  and  in  all  directions,  and 
have  come  to  no  conclusion  as  yet." 

Goethe  says,  in  his  Conversations,  "  a  piece  to  be  so  constructed  as  to 
be  fit  for  the  theatre,  must  be  symbolical,  that  is  to  say,  each  incident 
must  be  significant  in  itself,  and  lead  to  another  still  more  important.  The 
Tartuffe  of  Moliere  is,  in  this  respect,  a  great  example.  Only  think  what 
an  introduction  is  the  first  scene  !  From  the  very  beginning,  everything 
is  highly  significant,  and  leads  us  to  expect  something  still  more  import- 
ant which  is  to  come  .  .  !  that  of  the  Tartuffe  comes  only  once  into 
the  world  ....  it  is  the  greatest  and  best  thing  that  exists  of  the  kind." 

In  another  part  of  his  works,  the  great  German  author  says :  "  The  Tar- 
tuffe of  Moliere  makes  us  hate  him  ;  he  is  a  criminal  who  pretends,  like  a 
hypocrite,  to  be  pious  and  moral,  in  order  to  ruin  completely  an  honest 
family  ;  the  ending  by  a  police  officer  is  therefore  quite  natural,  and  very 
well  received.  Latterly,  this  piece  has  been  played  again,  and  brought 
forward,  because  it  served  to  show  the  underhand  dealings  of  a  certain 
class  of  men  who  threatened  to  pervert  Government.  It  was  not  the  beau- 
ty and  genius  of  the  work  which  were  felt  and  applauded ;  the  play  was 
only  a  hostile  weapon ;  the  different  parties  were  engaged,  the  one  wished 
to  destroy  the  evils  which  the  other  tried  to  spread.  That  which  appeared 
striking  in  the  piece,  was  that  the  subject  is  still  of  the  day,  and  that  it 
will  never  lose  its  effect,  on  account  of  the  art  with  which  it  has  been 
treated." 

Moliere  had  the  Tartuffe  printed  at  his  own  cost,  and  corrected  or  wrote 
it  so  carefully,  that  there  is  hardly  any  difference  between  the  first  and  the 
three  following  editions  of  this  comedy. 

The  German  dramatist,  Karl  Gutzkow,  wrote  in  1844,  a  comedy  in  five 
acts,  and  in  prose,  called  Das  Urbild  des  Tartuffe  ( The  Exemplar  of  Tar- 


TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  381 

iuffe),  of  which  he  admits  that  he  planned  it  chiefly  with  a  view  to  the 
circumstances  which  then  took  place  in  Germany,  and  to  the  severe  mea- 
sures which  the  Government  and  police  took,  at  that  time,  to  suppress  all 
obnoxious  ideas  in  print.  With  the  exception  of  a  complete  neglect  of  all 
historical  accuracy,  this  play  is  very  good,  and  the  intrigue  depends  chief- 
ly on  the  interdiction  to  play  the  Tartiiffc.  The  president,  La  Roquette, 
is  the  model  of  a  Tartuflfe,  and  he  employs  all  the  means  in  his  power  to 
prevent  Moli^re's  play  from  being  performed.  Moli^re,  Louis  XIV.,  and 
the  minister  of  police,  Lionne,  are  also  chief  characters  in  the  German 
play,  as  well  as  La  Chapelle,  who,  according  to  Gutzkow,  is  not  the  friend, 
but  an  envious  enemy,  of  Moli^re.  The  King  is  in  love  with  Armande 
Bejart,  who  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  Moli^re  ;  he  refuses  his  consent 
to  the  performance  of  Tartuffe,  because  he  has  been  informed  that  the 
expected  profits  of  the  comedy  will  serve  for  the  buying  of  the  trousseau 
of  Armande.  He  gives  his  consent  at  last,  because  the  actress  has  prom- 
ised to  wear  a  blue  neckerchief,  if  she  will  lend  a  favourable  ear  to  his 
wishes,  and  in  the  contrary  case  a  yellow  one  ;  and  Tartuffe  is  the  only 
play  which  is  ready  to  be  acted,  in  which  she  can  wear  a  neckerchief  In 
the  fifth  act,  which  takes  place  in  the  ante-chamber  of  the  King's  private 
box  in  the  theatre,  Moliere  wears  the  dress  of  La  Roquette,  and  is  mis- 
taken for  him,  whilst  the  president  is  mistaken  for  the  actor;  Armande 
refuses  to  listen  to  Louis  XIV.,  who  consoles  himself  with  the  thought  of 
encouraging,  in  his  own  peculiar  way,  the  budding  talents  and  charms  of 
her  younger  sister,  Madeleine.  Tartuffe  is  a  success,  and  the  hypocrite 
La  Roquette  ends  the  play  with  the  following  words :  "  They  may  drive 
us  away  like  wolves ;  we  come  back  like  foxes.  Revenge  yourselves ! 
Revenge  yourselves  !  We  shall  do  the  same.  (/«  a  very  humble  voice)  I 
shall  enter  the  order  of  Jesuits." 

Goldoni,  the  Italian  dramatist,  wrote  also  a  play  called  Moliere,  of  which 
he  gives  an  outline  in  his  autobiography,  where  he  says — "  I  was  ac- 
quainted with  Moliere,  and  respected  this  master  of  the  art  as  highly  as 
the  Piedmontese,  and  I  was  seized  instantly  with  a  desire  to  give  them  a 
convincing  proof  of  it.  I  immediately  composed  a  comedy  in  five  acts, 
and  in  verse,  without  masks  or  change  of  scene,  of  which  the  title  and 
principal  subject  were  Moliere  himself.  The  argument  was  taken  from 
two  anecdotes  of  his  private  life ;  the  one,  his  projected  marriage  with  Isa- 
belle,  the  daughter  of  Bejart ;  and  the  other,  the  prohibition  of  his  Tar- 
tuffe. These  two  historical  facts  accord  so  well  together,  that  the  unity 
of  action  is  perfectly  observed.  The  impostors  of  Paris,  alarmed  at  the 
comedy  of  Moliere,  knew  that  the  author  had  sent  to  the  camp,  where 
Louis  XIV.,  then  was,  to  obtain  permission  for  its  representation,  and 
they  were  afraid  lest  the  revocation  of  the  prohibition  should  be  obtained. 

"  I  employed  in  my  piece  a  person  of  the  name  of  Pirlon,  a  hypocrite 
in  every  sense  of  the  word,  who  introduces  himself  into  the  author's 
house,  discovers  to  La  Bejart  Moli^re's  love  for  her  daughter,  of  which 
she  was  yet  ignorant,  engages  her  to  quit  her  companion  and  director;  be- 
haves in  the  same  manner  to  Isabelle,  holding  up  to  her  the  situation  of 
an  actress  as  the  road  to  perdition,  and  endeavours  to  seduce  La  Foret, 
their  waiting-woman,  who,  more  adroit  than  her  mistresses,  dupes  the 
duper,  inspires  him  with  a  love  for  her,  and  takes  his  cloak  and  hat  from 
him  to  give  to  Moliere,  who  appears  on  the  stage  with  the  dress  of  the 
impostor.  I  was  bold  enough  to  exhibit  it  in  my  piece,  a  much  more 
marked  hypocrite  than  that  of  Moliere ;  but  hypocrites  had  then  lost  a 
great  deal  of  their  ancient  credit  in  Italy. 


382       tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 

"  During  the  interval  between  the  fourth  and  last  act  of  my  comedy, 
ih&Tartuffe  of  Moli^re  is  acted  in  the  theatre  of  the  Hotel  de  Bourgogne  ; 
all  the  characters  of  my  piece  make  their  apjiearance  in  the  fifth  act,  for 
the  purpose  of  complimenting  Moli^re ;  Pirlon,  concealed  in  a  closet, 
where  he  was  expecting  La  Foret,  is  forced  to  come  forth  in  the  presence 
of  the  spectators,  and  is  assailed  with  the  sarcasms  which  he  so  richly  de- 
served ;  and  Molifere,  to  add  to  his  joy  and  happiness,  marries  Isabelle.  in 
spite  of  the  mother,  who  aspired  to  the  conquest  of  her  future  son-in-law. 

"  In  this  piece  are  to  be  found  several  details  of  the  life  of  Moliere. 
The  character  of  Valerio  is  Baron,  an  actor  of  Moliere's  company. 
Leander  is  a  copy  of  La  Chapelle,  a  friend  of  the  author,  and  often  men- 
tioned in  the  account  of  his  Ufe.  .  .  .  This  work  is  in  verse.  ...  As  the 
subject  was  a  French  author,  who  wrote  largely  in  that  style,  it  became 
necessary  to  imitate  him." 

I  have  read  Goldoni's  play,  and  do  not  think  that  he  has  either  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  a  good  idea  of  the  character  of  Moliere,  or  of  a  hypo- 
crite. Moliere,  in  the  Italian  play,  in  a  conversation  with  Valerio  (Act 
iv.  scene  8)  says,  "  Philosophy  teaches  us,  and  experience  proves  it  to  us, 
that  no  other  love  exists  here  below  but  self-love."  This  is  certainly  not 
in  conformity  with  Moliere's  life.  Pirlon,  the  hypocrite,  when  discovered 
repents,  and  begs  pardon  on  his  knees  ;  and  this  also  Tartuffe  would  not 
have  done.  Mercier  has  remodelled  and  altered  the  Moliere  of  Goldoni 
for  the  French  stage ;  where  it  was  represented,  but  it  did  not  meet  with 
much  success. 

In  the  fifth  volume  of  the  "Select  Comedies  of  M.  de  MoliSre,  Lon- 
don, 1732,"  is  found  a  translation  of  Tartuffe,  under  the  name  of  The 
Impostor,  written  by  Mr.  Martin  Clare,  a  schoolmaster.  He  dedicates  it 
to  Mr.  Wyndham,  of  Clower-Wall,  in  Gloucestershire,  who  appears  to 
have  had  ''  a  very  promising  eldest  son,"  a  pupil  of  the  pedagogue,  and 
who  was  going  to  play  a  part  in  the  translation  of  Moliere's  comedy. 
Unforeseen  circumstances  prevented  this  piece  being  brotight  out;  but 
Mr.  Clare — I  suppose  with  an  eye  to  future  favours — says  that  the  young 
gentleman  would,  he  knows,  have  done  '•  great  justice  to  any  one  of  the 
parts."  Mr.  Clare  might,  like  Hamlet,  exclaim,  "  O  my  prophetic  soul." 
The  dedication  is  as  follows : 

Str,  .    , 

I  take  leave  to  offer  You  the  Fruit  of  a  few   leisure  Hours,  spent  in  translating 

one  of  the  most  celebrated  pieces  of  the  famous  Moliire.  It  was  first  intended  to 
be  exhibited  as  a  publick  Exercise  by  my  Young  Gentleman  (in  which  Your 
very  promising  eldest  son,  whose  Tuition  You  have  been  pleased  to  intrust  me 
with,  would,  I  know  do  great  Justice  to  any  one  of  the  Parts )  but  on  Account  of  the 
useful  Publication  of  this  excellent  Comic  Writer,  I  am  inclin'd  to  send  it  into  the 
world  under  Your  Patronage  and  Protection. 

The  Original  has  occasionally  given  Offence  to  the  Body  of  Zealots  and  Hypo- 
crites in  France,  and  wherever  else  their  Numbers  were  considerable  ;  but  from 
its  intrinsick  Merit,  the  Truth  of  the  Drawing,  and  Justness  of  the  colouring,  this 
particular  Piece  has  never  wanted  for  Patrons,  among  Persons  of  the  greatest 
Sense,  Virtue,  Learning,  and  Taste,  to  support  it  against  the  violent  Opposition  it 
has  met  with. 

What  Success  the  Translation  may  have  I  cannot  foresee.  But  as  it  is  thrown 
under  the  Guardianship  of  a  Gentleman,  who,  both  in  publick  and  private  Life, 
has  always  been  a  profess'd  Enemy  to  Artifice,  Disguise,  and  Fraud,  I  am  en- 
courag'd  to  hope,  that  a  moderate  Version  of  a  Piece,  wherein  those  Vices  are 
finely  expos'd  will  not  be,  for  Your  sake,  ill  received  by  the  Publick.  I  am  with 
great  Regard,  Sir,  Your  most  Oblieed,  and  Obedient,  Humble  SerTani, 

MARTIN  CLARE. 

Academy  in  Soke  Square,  London,  July  25,  1732. 


TARTUFFE  ;    OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  383 

There  is  also  a  Prologue  to  Mr.  Clare's  Impostor,  spoken  by  a  young 
gentleman  of  the  Academy  in  Soho  Square,  when  acted  there  in  the  year 
1726  ;  and  an  Epilogue  spoken  by  another  young  gentleman  in  the  char- 
acter of  "  Madam  Parnelle,"  which  I  doubt  very  much  if  any  school- 
master would  let  one  of  his  pupils  recite  at  the  present  time, 

Matthew  Melbourne,  an  actor  of  considerable  eminence,  belonging  to 
the  Duke  of  York's  theatre  in  the  reign  of  King  Charles  II.,  wrote  a 
translation,  in  blank  verse,  of  the  Tartuffe,  which  he  dedicated  to  the 
Right  Honourable  Henry,  Lord  Howard  of  Norfolk.  The  translator,  a 
Roman  Catholic,  seems  to  have  been  accused,  by  the  well  known  Dr.  Ti- 
tus Oates,  of  complicity  in  the  supposed  Catholic  plot,  for  he  was  impris- 
oned, and  died  in  Newgate  in  1679.  His  translation,  called  Tartuffe,  or 
the  French  Puritan — Puritan  stands  for  Huguenot — was  acted  at  the  The- 
atre-Royal, 1670,  and,  according  to  the  author's  account,  seems  to  have 
met  with  great  success.  There  are  several  new  scenes  added  in  the  Eng- 
lish play  which  are  not  found  in  the  original  comedy,  and  which  certainly 
do  not  improve  it.  They  are  the  following: — At  the  end  of  the  first  act 
of  The  Fre}tch  Puritan,  Laurence,  Tartuffe's  man-servant,  and  Dorina, 
the  waiting-maid,  meet;  he  behaves  rather  rudely  to  her;  but  she  dis- 
covers that  he  is  not  a  servant,  but  a  confederate  of  his  supposed  master, 
because  he  addresses  the  latter  only  by  his  name.  Tartuffe  who,  in  the 
original  play,  does  not  appear  until  the  second  scene  of  the  third  act,  in 
this  translation,  "passes  (now)  over  the  stage  in  a  demure  posture.''  In 
the  fifth  scene  of  the  second  act  of  the  English  play,  Laurence  confesses 
to  Dorina  that  he  is  not  so  holy  as  he  seems;  and  in  order  to  prove  it 
sings  a  very  indecent  song.  In  the  eighth  scene  of  the  third  act,  Tartuffe 
unfolds  his  plans  broadly  to  Laurence  ;  whilst,  in  the  ninth  scene  of  the 
same  act,  Madame  Pernelle  expresses  her  delight  to  "  Flypote"  that  her 
grandson  is  disinherited  in  favour  of  Tartuffe.  In  the  second  scene  of  the 
fourth  act,  Laurence  advises  Dorina  to  procure  a  meeting  between  Elmire 
and  Tartuffe,  and  to  let  Orgon  be  a  secret  witness  of  it.  In  the  original 
French  play,  Elmire  plans  the  meeting  herself.  The  fifth  act  of  The 
French  Puritan  differs  also  from  Moli^re's  comedy  ;  Laurence  betrays  his 
master,  and  produces  the  cabinet  and  writings  which  Tartuffe  had  appro- 
priated; and  then  all  the  characters  of  the  play  end  with  a  dance  ! 

Crowne  wrote  a  play.  The  English  Friar,  acted  in  1690,  of  which  the 
hypocrite.  Father  Finical,  is  certainly  suggested  by  Tartuffe.  Nobody 
can  read  the  last  scene  of  the  fifth  act  of  the  English  play  without  becom- 
ing convinced  of  this.  Some  of  the  very  words  of  Tartuffe,  Crowne 
puts  into  Finical's  mouth. 

The  Nonjuror,  a  very  successful  comedy,  by  Colley  Gibber,  acted  at 
Drury  Lane,  Dec.  6th,  1717,  is  another  imitation  of  Tartuffe.  In  the 
dedication   to  the   King,  Gibber,  with  an  eye  to  business,  says  that  "  the 

Sullen  and  Disaffected for  want  of  proper  Amusement,  often  enter 

into  "Wild  and  Seditious  Schemes  to  reform."  Of  course,  the  most  pro- 
per amusement  is  the  Theatre,  and  to  prove  this  further,  he  says  :  "  It 
has  even  discovered  the  Strength  and  Number  to  be  much  less  than  may 

have  been  artfully  insinuated of  which  your  Majesty  may  have 

lately  seen  an  Instance,  in  the  Insuppressible  acclamations  that  were 
given  on  your  appearing  to  Honour  this  Play  with  your  Royal  Presence.'' 
For  this  dedication.  Gibber  received  two  hundred  pounds  from  George  I. 
Dr.  Wolff  is  a  close  copv  from  the  French  original,  although  the  English 
dramatist  savs  fin  his  Apology)  that  it  was  his  intention  to  pourtray  "  an 
English  popish  priest  lurking  under  the  doctrine  of  our  own  church,  to 


384       tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 

raise  his  fortune  upon  the  ruin  of  a  worthy  ^ntleman,  whom  his  dissem- 
bled sanctity  had  seduced  into  the  treasonable  cause  of  a  Roman  Catho- 
lic outlaw.''  The  parts  of  Dorinathe  waiting-maid,  Cl^ante,  and  Madame 
Pemelle  are  omitted;  but  that  of  Marianne  (Maria)  is  improved,  and  has 
been  made  one  of  the  best  coquettes  on  the  stage.  Gibber  has  been  ac- 
cused of  having  stolen  the  plot,  characters,  incidents,  and  most  part  of 
the  language  from  Medboume ;  but  this  is  untrue.  What  he  has  taken 
from  him  is  the  servant  Charles  (Laurence),  who  also  betrays  his  mas- 
ter. The  prologue  of  The  Nonjuror,  written  by  Rowe,  is  chiefly  ad- 
dressed to  the  Jacobites,  and  ends  thus : — 

"Ship  off,  ye  Slaves,  and  seek  some  passive  Land, 
Where  Tyrants  after  your  own  Hearts  command. 
To  your  Transalpine  Master's  Rule  resort. 
And  fill  an  empty  abdicated  Court. 
Turn  your  Possessions  here  to  ready  Rhino, 
And  buy  ye  Lands  and  Lordships  at  Urbino." 

Macaulay  in  his  History  of  England,  8vo,  1855,  "Vol.  Ill,,  ch.  xiv., 
"General  character  of  the  Nonjuring  Clergy,''  states,  "  the  public  voice 
loudly  accused  many  nonjurors  of  requiting  the  hospitality  of  their  bene- 
factors with  villany  as  black  as  that  of  the  hypocrite  depicted  in  the  mas- 
terpiece of  Moli^re.  Indeed,  when  Cibber  undertook  to  adapt  that  noble 
comedy  to  the  English  stage,  he  made  his  Tartuffe  a  nonjuror ;  and 
Johnson,  who  cannot  be  supposed  to  have  been  prejudiced  against  the 
nonjurors,  frankly  owned  that  Cibber  had  done  them  no  wrong." 

According  to  Maidment  and  Logan's  Introductory  Notice  to  The 
English  Friar  J  Cibber  owed  a  great  deal  of  his  success  to  Crowne's  play : 
"  For  instance.  Father  Finical  becomes  a  bishop,  so  does  Dr.  Wolff;  both 
priests  are  of  an  amorous  complexion  ;  Finical  courts  the  maid,  Wolff 
the  mistress,  both  are  detected,  and  pretty  much  in  the  same  manner. 
The  Biographia  Dramatica  says,  '  The  Coquet  Maria  is  truly  original, 
and  most  elegantly  spirited ; '  is  not  this  precisely  the  character  of  Laura, 
the  eldest  daughter  of  Lord  Stately,  who  is  described  amongst  the  Dra- 
matis Persona  '  a  great  Gallant  and  Coquet  ? '  Not  to  multiply  points  of 
resemblance,  it  is  plain  that  Cibber  had  some  remembrance  of  The  English 
Friar  when  he  was  preparing  the  Nonjuror  for  the  stage." 

It  is  said  that  Pope  wrote  *'  a  Compleate  Key  to  The  Nonjuror^'  under 
the  name  of  Joseph  Guy,  in  which  a  comparison  is  drawn — and  not  in 
the  choicest  language — between  Moli^re's  Tartuffe  and  Cibber's  Nonjuror, 
greatly — and  justly  so — to  the  disadvantage  of  the  latter.  Among  other 
compliments,  it  is  said :  "  Mr.  Cibber  did  not  want  an  old  woman  to 
strengthen  the  bigotry  of  her  weak  son  (Cibber  had  not  plagiarized  Ma- 
dame Pemelle),  and  therefore  has  made  that  son  a  very  old  woman." 

On  June  20th.  1718,  Medboume's  translation  of  Tartuffe,  which  had 
not  been  acted  for  thirty  years,  was  performed  at  Lincoln's  Inn-Fields, 
with  a  prologue,  said  to  be  written  by  Pope  in  imitation  of  Rowe,  and 
ending  almost  in  his  very  words,  thus : 

"  Ship  off,  ye  Saints,  and  seek  some  righteous  Land, 
Where  Pastors  after  your  owrt  Hearts  command; 
Like  Criminals  adjudg'd  to  leave  the  nation, 
\     ^  Go,  take  the  Benefit  of  Transportation. 

X     '  Turn  your  possessions  here  to  ready  Rhino,  ^    ■».i.- 

\  .  And  Preach  abroad  by  jfure  non  Divino," 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.       385 

Isaac  Bickerstaffe  altered  CoUey  Gibber's  play,  and  called  It  The  Hypo- 
crite, which  was  acted  at  Drury  Lane  on  Uie  17th  of  November  1768. 
This  is  The  Nonjuror,  with  the  names  altered,  the  bitter  attacks  against 
Jacobites  and  Nonjurors,  and  a  good  deal  of  the  spirit  left  out,  Madame 
Pernelle  (old  Lady  Lambert),  from  Tartuffe,  added,  and  a  new  cha- 
racter,— which  I  venture  to  think  very  vulgar — Mawworm,  inserted. 
The  hypocrite  is  called  Dr.  Cantwell,  the  credulous  Orgon,  Sir  John  Lam- 
bert, and  the  coquette,  Charlotte. 

Sheridan,  in  The  School  for  Scandal,  has  partly  imitated  Tartuffe  in 
Joseph  Surface,  and  the  third  scene  of  the  fourth  act  of  his  play  seems 
to  me  based  upon  the  fifth  scene  of  the  fourth  act  of  Tartuffe ;  it  is 
only  based  upon,  not  borrowed  from,  Molifere. 

Mr.  John  Oxenford,  the  eminent  theatrical  critic,  has  also  written  a 
translation  of  Tartuffe,  in  blank  verse,  which  was  performed,  with  great 
success,  some  years  ago,  at  the  Adelpbi  Theatre,  London ;  this  play  has 
never  been  printed.  Z 

VOL.  IL 


PREFACE." 


This  is  a  comedy  about  which  there  has  been  a  great  deal  of 
noise,  which  has  been  for  a  long  time  persecuted ;  and  the 
people  whom  it  holds  up  have  well  shown  that  they  are  the 
most  powerful  in  France  of  all  those  whom  I  have  hitherto 
portrayed.  The  marquises,  the  blue  stockings,  the  cuckolds 
and  the  doctors,  have  quietly  suffered  themselves  to  be  repre- 
sented, and  have  pretended  to  be  amused,  in  common  with  all 
the  world,  at  the  sketches  which  I  have  made  of  them  ;  but 
the  hypocrites  have  not  taken  the  joke.  At  first  they  were 
somewhat  amazed,  and  found  it  strange  that  I  should  have 
had  the  presumption  to  make  free  with  their  grimaces,  and 
wish  to  decry  a  trade  much  indulged  in  by  honest  people.  It 
is  a  crime  which  they  could  not  pardon  me,  and  they  have  all 
risen  up  in  arms  against  my  comedy  with  a  terrible  fury. 
They  took  particular  care  not  to  attack  it  from  a  point  of  view 
where  it  wounded  them — they  have  too  much  policy  for  that, 
and  are  too  knowing  to  lay  bare  the  bottoms  of  their  hearts. 
In  accordance  with  their  laudable  customs,  they  have  con- 
cealed their  interests  beneath  the  cloak  of  God's  cause;  and 
to  listen  to  them,  The  Tartuffe  is  a  piece  that  offends  piety. 
It  is,  from  beginning  to  end,  full  of  abominations,  and  nothing 
is  found  in  it  but  what  deserves  the  fire.  Every  syllable  in  it 
is  impious  ;  the  gesticulations  themselves  are  criminal ;  and 
the  least  glance  of  the  eye,  the  slightest  shake  of  the  head, 
conceal  mysteries  which  they  find  means  to  explain  to  my 
disadvantage. 

Of  little  avail  was  it  to  submit  it  to  the  criticism  of  my 
friends,  and  to  the  censorship  of  the  public ;  the  corrections 
which  I  have  made,  the  judgment  of  the  King  and  the  Queen, 
who  have  seen  it ;    the  approbation  of  the  great  princes  and 

w  This  preface  was  written  for  the  first  edition  of  the   Tartuffe,  in  i66g,  and  is 
therefore  posterior  to  the  petitions  given  in  the  Introductory  Notice  to  this  play. 


388  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE. 

the  great  ministers,  who  honoured  the  performance  with  their 
presence ;  the  testimony  of  people  of  worth,  who  found  it  in- 
structing— all  this  was  of  no  use.  They  will  not  abate  one 
jot;  and  they  still  continue,  every  day,  to  set  their  indiscreet 
zealots  on  me  in  public,  who  piously  load  me  with  insults,  and 
charitably  consign  me  to  perdition. 

I  would  care  very  little  for  what  they  could  say,  were  it  not 
for  their  artfulness  in  bringing  people  whom  I  respect  to  be  at 
enmity  with  me,  and  in  enhsting  among  their  ranks  the  truly 
good,  whose  good  faith  they  take  advantage  of,  and  who,  by 
the  warmth  of  their  interest  in  the  cause  of  Heaven,  are  apt  to 
receive  the  impresssions  which  they  wish  to  give  them.  It  is 
this  which  compels  me  to  defend  myself.  It  is  with  the  truly 
pious  that  I  everywhere  wish  to  justify  myself  as  to  the  ar- 
rangement of  my  comedy ;  and  I  implore  them,  with  all  my 
heart,  not  to  condemn  things  before  they  have  seen  them,  to 
divest  themselves  of  all  bias,  and  not  to  be  the  tool  of  the  pas- 
sions of  those  whose  grimaces  are  a  disgrace  to  them. 

If  they  will  take  the  trouble  to  examine  my  comedy  in  good 
faith,  they  will  perceive,  doubtless,  the  honesty  of  my  inten- 
tions everywhere,  and  that  it  is  not  intended  to  hold  sacred 
things  up  to  ridicule;  that  I  have  treated  it  with  every  precau- 
tion which  the  delicacy  of  the  subject  required  ;  and  that  I 
have  employed  every  possible  art  and  care  plainly  to  show 
the  difference  between  the  character  of  the  hypocrite  and  that 
of  the  truly  devout.  For  this  purpose  I  have  devoted  two  en- 
tire acts  to  prepare  my  audience  for  the  advent  of  my  scoun- 
drel. He  does  not  make  the  spectator  waver  for  an  instant ; 
he  is  known  immediately  by  the  marks  which  I  have  given 
him ;  and,  from  first  to  last,  he  does  not  utter  a  word,  nor 
make  a  movement,  but  what  depicts  to  the  beholder  the  char- 
acter of  a  wicked  man,  in  violent  contrast  to  the  really  good 
one  whom  I  have  placed  in   opposition  to  him. 

I  am  well  aware  that,  in  reply,  those  gentlemen  have  en- 
deavoured to  insinuate  that  the  stage  is  not  fit  for  the  discus- 
sion of  these  subjects  ;  but,  by  their  leave,  I  ask  them  upon 
what  they  base  this  beautiful  maxim.  It  is  a  theory  which 
they  only  advance,  and  which  they  do  not  prove  by  any 
means ;  and  it  would  doubtless,  not  be  difficult  to  show  them 
that,  with  the  ancients  comedy  derived  its  origin  froni  religion, 
and  was  a  part  of  their  mysteries  ;  that  the  Spaniards,  our 
neighbours,  never  celebrate  a  feast  in  which  comedy  is  not 
mixed  up  ;  and  that,  even  amongst  us  it  owes  its  birth  to  the 
cares  of  a  brotherhood  to  which  the  hotel  de  Bourgogne  still 
belongs ;  that  it  was  a  place  given  to  them  to  represent  in  it 
the  most  important  mysteries  of  our  faith;  that  comedies 
printed  in  Gothic  characters,  under  the  name  of  a   doctor  of 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  389 

the  Sorbonne,  may  still  be  seen  there ;  and,  without  carrying 
the  matter  so  far,  that,  in  our  days,  sacred  pieces  of  M.  de 
Corneille"  have  been  performed,  which  were  the  admiration 
of  the  whole  of  France.  If  it  be  the  aim  of  comedy  to  correct 
man's  vices,  then  I  do  not  see  for  what  reason  there  should  be 
a  privileged  class.  Such  a  one  is,  in  the  State,  decidedly 
more  dangerous  in  its  consequences  than  any  other ;  and  we 
have  seen  that  the  stage  possesses  a  great  virtue  as  a  correct- 
ive medium.  The  most  beautiful  passages  in  a  serious  moral 
are  most  frequently  less  powerful  than  those  of  a  satire  ;  and 
nothing  admonishes  the  majority  of  people  better  than  the 
pourtrayal  of  their  faults.  To  expose  vices  to  the  ridicule  of  all 
the  world  is  a  severe  blow  to  them.  Reprehensions  are  easily 
suffered,  but  not  so  ridicule.  People  do  not  mind  being 
wicked;  but  they  object  to  being  made  ridiculous. 

The  reproach  against  me  is  that  I  have  put  pious  terms  in 
the  mouth  of  my  impostor.  How  could  I  avoid  it,  wishing  to 
represent  the  character  of  a  hypocrite  accurately  ?  It  is  suffi- 
cient, I  think,  that  I  show  the  criminal  motives  which  make 
him  say  these  things,  and  that  I  have  eliminated  from  them 
the  sacred  terms,  the  bad  use  of  which  might  have  caused 
pain.^*  "  But  in  the  fourth  act  he  gives  vent  to  a  pernicious 
moral."  But  has  not  this  moral  been  dinned  into  everybody's 
ears  ? "  Does  it  say  aught  that  is  new  in  my  comedy  ?  And 
is  there  any  fear  that  things  so  universally  detested  shall  leave 
any  impression  on  men's  minds  ?  that  I  can  make  them  dan- 
gerous by  introducing  them  on  the  stage ;  that  they  are  likely 
to  receive  any  authority  from  the  lips  of  a  scoundrel  ?  There 
is  not  the  least  indication  of  that ;  and  one  ought  to  approve 
the  comedy  of  Tartuffe,  or  condemn  all  comedies  wholesale. 

It  is  that  which  people  have  attacked  furiously  of  late  ;  and 
never  has  the  stage  been  so  furiously  tilted  at.  I  cannot  deny 
that  there  have  been  Fathers  of  the  Church  who  have  con- 
demned comedy ;  but  neither  can  it  be  denied  to  me  that 
there  have  been  some  who  have  treated  it  more  leniently. 
Thus  the  authority  upon  which  people  seek  to  found  their 
censorship  is  destroyed  by  this  division ;  and  all  that  can  be 
deduced  from  this  diversity  of  opinions  in  equally  enlightened 
minds,  is  that  they  have  regarded  comedy  from  a  different 
point  of  view,  and  that  while  some  have  looked  at  it  in  its 
purifying  influence,  others  have  considered  it  in  its  corrupting 


'^''  Polyeucte  ;  and  Thiodore,  virgin  and  martyr . 

18  Moliere  alludes  here  to  a  line  of  Tartuffe,  in  the  eighth  scene  of  the  third  act, 
■which  was  in  the  first  representation,  "  Forgive  him,  O  Heaven !  as  I  forgive 
him." 

15  Moliere  speaks  of  the  false  casuistical  morals  attacked  by  Pascal  in  the  sev- 
enth Provinciale, 


390  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite. 

tendency,  and  confounded  it  with  those  vile  spectacles,  rightly 
named  exhibitions  of  turpitude. 

And  in  fact,  since  we  have  to  argue  upon  things,  and  not 
upon  words;  and  that  the  majority  of  contradictions  cannot 
well  be  reconciled,  and  that  the  same  word  often  envelops  two 
opposite  meanings,  we  have  but  to  lift  the  veil  of  the  equivo- 
cal, and  to  look  what  comedy  is  in  itself,  to  see  whether  it  is 
to  be  condemned.  It  is,  doubtless,  well  known  that,  being 
nothing  else  but  an  ingenious  poem,  which,  by  its  agreeable 
teaching,  seeks  to  point  out  the  faults  of  mankind,  it  does  not 
deserve  to  be  so  unjustly  censured ;  and  if  we  may  listen  on 
that  point  to  the  testimony  of  antiquity,  it  will  tell  us  that  her 
most  famous  philosophers  have  eulogized  comedy ;  they  who 
professed  such  austere  wisdom,  and  who  were  incessantly  de- 
crying the  vices  of  their  age.  It  will  show  us  that  Aristotle 
devoted  many  of  his  vigils  to  the  theatre,  and  took  the  trouble 
to  reduce  to  precept  the  art  of  constructing  comedies.  It  will 
teach  us  that  her  greatest  men,  foremost  in  dignity,  have  glo- 
ried in  composing  some  themselves ;  that  there  were  others 
who  did  not  disdain  to  recite  in  public  those  which  they  had 
composed  ;  that  Greece  proclaimed  her  appreciation  of  that 
art  by  the  glorious  prizes  she  awarded  to,  and  the  magnificent 
theatres  she  built  in  honour  of  it ;  and  lastly,  that  in  Rome  this 
same  art  was  crowned  with  extraordinary  honours.  I  do  not 
say  in  debauched  Rome,  under  the  licentious  emperors,  but  in 
disciplined  Rome,  under  the  wisdom  of  her  consuls,  and  at 
the  most  vigorous  period  of  Roman  virtue. 

I  admit  that  there  have  been  times  in  which  comedy  be- 
came corrupt.  And  what  is  there  in  this  world  that  does  not 
become  corrupt  every  day  ?  There  is  nothing  so  pure  but 
what  mankind  can  bring  crime  to  bear  upon  it;  no  art  so  sal- 
utary but  what  they  can  reverse  its  intentions ;  nothing  so 
good  in  itself  but  what  they  can  turn  to  a  bad  use.  Medicine 
is  a  profitable  art,  and  every  one  esteems  it  as  one  of  the  most 
excellent  things  in  existence ;  and  yet  there  have  been  periods 
in  which  it  has  made  itself  odious,  and  has  often  been  used  to 
poison  people.  Philosophy  is  a  gilt  of  Heaven;  it  was  given 
to  us  to  lead  our  minds  to  the  knowledge  of  God  by  the  con- 
templation of  nature's  wonders ;  still  we  are  not  unaware  that 
it  has  often  been  diverted  from  its  use,  and  employed  openly 
to  support  impiety.  Even  the  most  sacred  things  are  not  safe 
from  men's  corruption  ;  and  we  see  the  greatest  scoundrels 
daily  abusing  piety,  and  wickedly  making  it  the  tool  for  the 
most  abominable  crimes.  But  for  all  that,  we  do  not  fail  to 
make  those  distinctions  which  it  is  right  we  should  make. 
We  do  not  envelop  in  the  same  warp  of  a  false  deduction  the 
good  of    the  thing  corrupted  with  the  malice  of  the  cor- 


tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  391 

rupter.  We  always  separate  the  bad  use  from  the  honest 
intention  of  art,  and  no  more  than  we  would  dream  of  defend- 
ing the  banishment  of  medicine  from  Rome,  or  the  public 
condemnation  of  philosophy  at  Athens,  ought  we  to  put  a  veto 
upon  comedy  for  having  been  censured  at  certain  times. 
This  censuring  had  its  reasons  which  have  no  existence  here. 
It  confined  itself  strictly  to  what  it  saw  ;  and  we  ought,  there- 
fore, not  to  drag  it  beyond  the  limits  which  it  has  adopted, 
extend  it  farther  than  necessary,  or  make  it  class  the  guilty 
with  the  innocent.  The  comedy  which  it  designed  to  attack 
is  not  at  all  the  comedy  which  we  wish  to  defend.  We  must 
take  good  care  not  to  confound  the  one  with  the  other.  They 
are  two  persons  whose  morals  are  totally  opposed.  They  bear 
no  relation  to  each  other  except  the  resemblance  of  the  name  ; 
and  it  would  be  a  crying  injustice  to  wish  to  condemn  Olym- 
pia,  who  is  an  honest  woman,  because  there  was  another 
Olympia,  who  was  a  loose  character.'**'  Such  verdicts  would, 
doubtless,  produce  a  great  disorder  in  the  world.  Everything 
would  be  open  to  condemnation  ;  and,  since  this  rigour  is  not 
carried  out  with  reference  to  all  other  things  which  are  daily 
abused,  we  ought  to  extend  the  same  grace  to  comedy,  and 
approve  those  plays  in  which  instruction  and  honesty  are 
made  manifest. 

I  am  well  aware  that  there  are  certain  minds  whose  delicacy 
can  tolerate  no  comedy  whatsoever ;  who  say  that  the  most 
honest  ones  are  the  most  dangerous  ;  that  the  passions  which 
they  depict  are  so  much  the  more  touching  because  they  are 
full  of  virtue  ;  and  that  people  are  too  much  affected  by  this 
kind  of  representations.  I  do  not  see  any  great  crime  in  be- 
coming affected  at  the  sight  of  an  honourable  passion  :  or  that 
the  complete  state  of  insensibility  to  which  they  would  elevate 
our  feelings  would  indicate  a  high  standard  of  virtue.  I  am 
inclined  to  doubt  whether  such  great  perfection  be  in  the 
power  of  human  nature,  and  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to 
endeavour  to  rectify  and  mollify  men's  passions,  than  to  elirn- 
inate  them  altogether.  I  admit  that  there  are  places  which  it 
would  be  more  salutary  to  frequent  than  theatres  ;  and  if  we 
take  it  for  granted  that  all  things  that  do  not  directly  concern 
God  and  our  salvation  are  reprehensible,  then  it  becomes  cer- 
tain that  comedy  should  be  one  of  them,  and  I  for  one  could 
not  object  that  it  should  be  condemned  among  the  rest.  But 
let  us  suppose,  as  it  is  true,  that  there  must   be   mtervals  to 

M  It  has  been  said  that  Moliere,  in  mentioning  the  name  of  Olympia,  wished  to 
hit  at  Olympia  Maldachini,  a  sister-in-law  of  Pope  Innocent  X.  1  bis  I'ope  a  ca 
in  16.;=;,  and  was  the  author  of  the  bull  against  the  five  pronositions  «'  >"f  ^'i; 
The  life  of  the  kdy,  who  was  far  from  a  saint,  had  only  lately  been  translated  from 
the  Italian  into  French. 


392  TARTUFFE  ;    OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE. 

pious  devotions,  and  that  we  have  need  of  amusement  during 
that  time,  then  I  maintain  that  nothing  more  innocent  than 
comedy  could  be  found.  I  have  digressed  too  far.  Let  me 
wind  up  with  the  remark  of  a  great  prince^^  on  the  comedy  of 
Tartuffe.  A  week  after  it  had  been  forbidden,  there  was 
performed  before  the  court  a  piece  entitled  Scaramouch,  a  her- 
mit^ and  the  King,  coming  out  of  the  theatre,  said  to  the 
prince  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken,  "  I  should  like  to  know 
why  the  people,  who  are  so  very  much  shocked  at  the  comedy 
of  Moliere,  do  not  say  a  word  about  Scaramouch,''  to  which 
the  prince  answered,  "  The  reason  of  that  is,  that  the  comedy 
of  Scaramouch  makes  game  of  Heaven  and  rehgion,  about 
which  these  gentlemen  care  very  little  ;  but  Moliere's  makes 
game  of  them  ;    it  is  that  which  they  cannot  tolerate." 

21  The  Prince  de  Conde. 

22 The  farce  oi  Scaramouch,  a  hermit  contained  many  indecent  situations; 
amongst  others,  that  of  a  monk  entering  by  the  balcony  into  the  house  of  a  married 
woman,  and  reappearing  from  time  to  time  before  the  public,  saying,  "  Questo  eper 
tnorti  Jicar  la  carne." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 

Orgon,  husband  to  Elmire.^ 

Damis,  his  son. 

Valere,  Mariane^s  lover. 

Cleiante,  Orgon' s  brother-in-law, 

Tartuffe. 

M.  Loyal,  a  tipstaff?^ 

A  Police  Officer.** 

Elmire,   Orgon'  s  wife. 

Madame  Pernelle,  Organ's  mother. 

Marianne,  Organ'  s  daughter. 

Dorine,  her  maid. 

Flipote,  Madame  Pernelle' s  servant. 

The  scene  is  in  Paris,  in  Orgon's  House. 


23  This  part  was  played  by  Moli^re  himself.  In  the  inventory  taken 
after  Moli^re's  death,  we  find  "  the  dress  for  Orgon  consisting  of  a  doublet, 
breeches,  and  cloak  of  black  venitienne,  the  cloak  lined  with  tabby,  and 
adorned  with  English  lace,  the  garters,  rosettes  of  the  shoes,  and  the 
shoes  adorned  in  the  same  manner."  Madame  Moli^re  played  the  part 
of  Elmire. 

2*  The  original  has  sergent.  The  tipstaffs  of  the  upper  court  were 
called  huissiers  ;  in  Paris,  huissiers  h  verge ;  and  of  a  lower  court,  ser- 
gents. 

«8  The  original  has  exempt,  from  the  verb  exempter.  to  be  free  from,  be- 
cause  formerly  non-commissioned  officers  of  the  cavalrv,  who  commanded 
m  the  absence  of  their  superiors,  were  free  from  all  other  duties,  and  were 
exempt;  such  officers  commanded  the  marechaussee  or  prevotal  guard 
when  It  arrested  anyone. 


TARTUFFE;  OR.  THE  HYPOCRITE. 

{TARTUFFE;    OU.  UIMPOSTEUR). 


ACT  L 


Scene    I, — Madame  Pernelle,   Elmire,   Mariane, 
Cleante,  Damis,  Dorine,  Flipote. 

M.  Per.  Come  along,  Flipote,  come  along ;  let  us  get 
rid  of  them. 

Elm.  You  walk  so  fast,  that  one  can  hardly  keep  up 
with  you. 

M.  Per.  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  daughter-in-law,  do 
not  trouble  yourself,  do  not  come  any  farther ;  there  is  no 
need  for  all  this  ceremony. 

Elm.  We  only  give  you  your  due.  But  pray,  mother, 
why  are  you  in  such  haste  to  leave  us? 

M.  Per.  Because  I  cannot  bear  to  see  such  goings  on. 
No  one  cares  to  please  me.  I  leave  your  house  very  little 
edified:  all  my  advice  is  despised;  nothing  is  respected, 
every  one  has  his  say  aloud,  and  it  is  just  like  the  court  of 
King  Petaud.'* 

^  Petaud,  from  the  Latin  i>eto,  I  ask.  was  formerly  the  name  of  the  chief 
of  the  beggars  in  France.  As  his  subordinates  were  very  unruly,  a  house 
where  everybody  gave  orders  was  called  figuratively  "  the  court  of  King 
Petaud."  In  Mr.  Clare's  translation,  mentioned  in  the  Introductory 
Notice,  this  court  is  called  "  Dover's  Court." 

395 


396  TARTUFFE;   or,   the  hypocrite.  [acti. 

Dor.  If .    .    . 

M.  Per.  You  are,  my  dear,  a  little  too  much  of  a  talker, 
and  a  great  deal  too  saucy  for  a  waiting  maid.  You  give 
your  advice  about  everything. 

Dam.  But  .    .    . 

M.  Per.  Four  letters  spell  your  name,  my  child,  a 
**fool:"  I,  your  grandmother,  tell  you  so;  and  I  have 
already  predicted  to  my  son,  your  father,  a  hundred  times, 
that  you  are  fast  becoming  a  good-for-nothing,  who  will 
give  him  nought  but  trouble. 

Mar.   I  think  .    .    . 

M.  Per.  Good-lack !  grand-daughter,  you  play  the 
prude,  and  to  look  at  you,  butter  would  not  melt  in  your 
mouth.  But  still  waters  run  deep,  as  the  saying  is;  and 
I  do  not  like  your  sly  doings  at  all. 

Elm.  But,  mother  .    .    . 

M.  Per.  By  your  leave,  daughter-in-law,  your  whole 
conduct  is  altogether  wrong;  you  ought  to  set  them  a 
good  example  ;  and  their  late  mother  managed  them  a 
great  deal  better.  You  are  extravagant;  and  it  disgusts 
me  to  see  you  decked  out  like  a  princess."  The  woman 
who  wishes  to  please  her  husband  only,  daughter-in-law, 
has  no  need  of  so  much  finery. 

Cle.  But  after  all.  Madam  .    .    . 

M,  Per.  As  for  you.  Sir,  who  are  her  brother,  I  esteem, 
love,  and  respect  you  very  much;  but,  nevertheless,  if  I 
were  my  son  and  her  husband,  I  would  beg  of  you 
earnestly  not  to  enter  our  house.  You  are  always  laying 
down  maxims  which  respectable  people  ought  not  to  follow. 
I  speak  to  you  rather  frankly ;  but  it  is  a  way  I  have  got, 
and  I  do  not  mince  my  words  when  I  have  something  on 
my  mind. 

Dam.  Your  Mr.  TartuflFe  is  an  angel,  no  doubt  .    .    . 

M.  Per.  He  is  a  very  worthy  man,  who  ought  to  be  lis- 


^  According  to  Grimarest's  Vie  de  Moliere,  our  author  went  into  the 
dressing-room  of  his  wife— who  was  going  to  play  the  part  of  Elmire— a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  piece  began.  He  found  her  clothed  in  a 
magnificent  dress,  which  she  had  put  on,  without  telHng  her  husband  of 
it.  Mohere  insisted  that  she  should  put  it  off,  and  take  one  more  in  ac- 
cordance with  Elmire's  character.  I  am  afraid  that  this  anecdote  rests 
onlv  on  mere  tradition:  still  it  proves  that  Mrs.  Orgon  was  too  well 
dressed  to  suit  even  the  taste  of  her  mother-in-law. 


SCENE  I.]  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  397 

tened  to ;  and  I  cannot,  without  getting  angry,  suffer  him 
to  be  sneered  at  by  a  fool  like  you. 

Dam.  What !  am  I  to  allow  a  censorious  bigot  to  usurp 
an  absolute  authority  in  this  house  J  and  shall  we  not  be 
permitted  to  amuse  ourselves,  unless  that  precious  gentle- 
man condescends  to  give  us  leave ! 

Dor.  If  any  one  were  to  listen  to  him  and  believe  in 
his  maxims,  one  could  not  do  anything  without  commit- 
ting a  sin  ;  for  he  controls  everything,  this  carping  critic. 

M.  Per.   And  whatever  he  does  control,  is  well  con- . 
trolled.     He  wishes  to  lead  you  on  the  road  to  Heaven : 
and  my  son  ought  to  make  you  all  love  him. 

Dam.  No,  look  here,  grandmother,  neither  father  nor 
anyone  else  shall  ever  induce  me  to  look  kindly  upon  him. 
I  should  belie  my  heart  to  say  otherwise.  His  manners 
every  moment  enrage  me  ;  I  can  foresee  the  consequence, 
and  one  time  or  other  I  shall  have  to  come  to  an  open 
quarrel  with  this  low-bred  fellow.^ 

Dor.  Certainly,  it  is  a  downright  scandal  to  see  a 
stranger  exercise  such  authority  in  this  house  ;  to  see  a 
beggar,  who,  when  he  came,  had  not  a  shoe  to  his  foot, 
and  whose  whole  dress  may  have  been  worth  twopence,  so 
far  forget  himself  as  to  cavil  at  everything,  and  to  assume 
the  authority  of  a  master. 

M.  Per.  Eh  !  mercy  on  me  1  things  would  go  on  much 
better  if  everything  were  managed  according  to  his  pious 
directions. 

Dor.  He  passes  for  a  saint  in  your  opinion  ;  but  believe 
me,  he  is  nothing  but  a  hypocrite. 

M.  Per.  What  a  tongue  ! 

Dor.  I  should  not  like  to  trust  myself  with  him,  nor  ^ 
with  his  man  Laurent,  without  a  good  guarantee. 

M.  Per.  I  do  not  know  what  the  servant  may  be  at 
heart ;  but  as  for  the  master,  I  will  vouch  for  him  as  a 
good  man.  You  bear  him  ill-will,  and  only  reject  him  be- 
cause he  tells  all  of  you  the  truth.  It  is  against  sin  that 
his  heart  waxes  wroth,  and  his  only  motive  is  the  interest 
of  Heaven. 

^  The  original  has  pied-plat,  flat  foot, — I  suppose  on  account  of  an 
imaginary  connection  between  a  high  instep  and  aristocratic  descent. 


398  TARTUFFE;  or,   the  hypocrite.  [act  I. 

Dor.  Ay;  but  why,  particularly  for  some  time  past, 
can  he  not  bear  any  one  to  come  to  the  house  ?  What  is 
there  offensive  to  Heaven  in  a  civil  visit,  that  there  must 
be  a  noise  about  it  fit  to  split  one's  ears?  Between  our- 
selves, do  you  wish  me  to  explain?  .  .  .  {^Pointing  to  El- 
mire).  Upon  my  word,  I  believe  him  to  be  jealous  of  my 
mistress. 

M.  Per.  Hold  your  tongue,  and  mind  what  you  say.  It 
is  not  he  only  who  blames  these  visits.  All  the  bustle  of 
these  people  who  frequent  this  house,  these  carriages  ever- 
lastingly standing  at  the  door,  and  the  noisy  crowd  of  so 
many  servants,  cause  a  great  disturbance  in  the  whole 
neighbourhood.  I  am  willing  to  believe  that  there  is 
really  no  harm  done;  but  people  will  talk  of  it,  and  that 
is  not  right. 

Cle.  Alas,  Madam,  will  you  prevent  people  talking? 
It  would  be  a  very  hard  thing  if,  in  life,  for  the  sake  of 
the  foolish  things  which  may  be  said  about  us,  we  had  to 
renounce  our  best  friends.  And  even  if  we  could  resolve 
to  do  so,  do  you  think  we  could  compel  every  one  to  hold 
his  tongue?  There  is  no  protection  against  slander.  Let 
us,  therefore,  pay  no  regard  to  all  this  silly  tittle-tattle; 
let  us  endeavour  to  live  honestly,  and  leave  the  gossips  to 
say  what  they  please. 

Dor.  May  not  Daphne,  our  neighbour,  and  her  little 
husband,  be  those  who  speak  ill  of  us  ?  They  whose  own 
conduct  is  the  most  ridiculous  are  always  the  first  to  slan- 
der others.  They  never  fail  to  catch  eagerly  at  the  slight- 
est rumour  of  a  love-affair,  to  spread  the  news  of  it  with 
joy,  and  to  give  it  the  turn  which  they  want.  They  think 
to  justify  their  own  actions  before  the  world  by  those  of 
others,  painted  in  colours  of  their  choosing,  either  in  the 
false  expectation  of  glossing  over  their  own  intrigues  with 
some  semblance  of  innocence,  or  else  by  making  to  fall 
elsewhere  some  part  of  that  public  blame  with  which  they 
are  too  heavily  burdened." 

M.  Per.  All  these  arguments  are  nothing  to  the  pur- 

*  This  is  said  to  be  an  allusion  to  Olympia  Mancini,  Countess  de  Sois- 
sons,  who  spread  a  report,  and  even  informed  the  queen,  of  the  rising 
love  of  Louis  XIV.  for  Mademoiselle  de  la  Vallifere.  See  Introductory 
Notice  to  The  Princess  of  Elis. 


SCENE  I.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  399 

pose.  Orante  is  known  to  lead  an  exemplary  life.  All 
her  cares  tend  to  Heaven ;  and  I  have  learned  by  people 
that  she  strongly  condemns  the  company  who  visit  here. 

Dor.  An  admirable  pattern  indeed,  and  she  is  very 
good,  this  lady  !  It  is  true  that  she  lives  very  austerely ; 
but  age  has  put  this  ardent  zeal  into  her  breast ;  people 
know  that  she  is  a  prude,  against  her  own  will.  She 
enjoyed  her  advantages  well  enough  as  long  as  she  was 
capable  of  attracting  attentions ;  but,  seeing  the  lustre  of 
her  eyes  become  somewhat  dim,  she  renounces  the  world 
which  is  renouncing  her,  and  conceals  under  the  pompous 
cloak  of  lofty  wisdom,  the  decay  of  her  worn-out  charms. 
These  are  the  vicissitudes  of  coquettes  in  our  time.  They 
find  it  hard  to  see  their  admirers  desert  them.  Thus 
forsaken,  their  gloomy  anxiety  sees  no  other  resource  but 
that  of  prudery ;  and  the  severity  of  these  good  women 
censures  everything  and  pardons  nothing.'"  Loudly  they 
blame  everyone's  life,  not  through  charity,  but  through 
envy,  which  cannot  bear  another  to  enjoy  those  pleasures 
for  which  their  age  gives  them  no  longer  a  relish." 

M.  Per.  (To  Elmire).  These  are  cock-and-bull  stories, 
made  to  please  you,  daughter-in-law.  One  is  obliged  to 
keep  silence  here,  for  Madam  keeps  the  ball  rolling  all 
day.  But  I  also  will  have  my  say  in  my  turn.  I  tell  you 
that  my  son  has  never  done  anything  more  sensible  than  in 
receiving  this  devout  personage  in  his  house ;  that  Heaven 
itself,  in  time  of  need,  has  sent  him  here  to  reclaim  all 
your  erring  minds;  that  for  your  salvation's  sake,  you 
ought  to  listen  to  himj  and  that  he  censures  nothing  but 
what  is  reprehensible.  These  visits,  these  balls,  these 
conversations,   are  all  inventions  of  the  evil  one.     One 


80  This  is  said  to  be  a  hit  at  the  Duchess  de  Navailles  (see  Introductory- 
Notice  to  The  Princess  of  E lis),  who  caused  iron  railings  to  be  placed  at 
the  entrance  of  the  rooms  of  the  maids  of  honour,  in  order  to  prevent 
Louis  XIV.  from  visiting  Mademoiselle  de  Lamothe  Houdancourt.  The 
duchess  owed  her  fortune  to  Cardinal  Mazarin,  whose  intrigues  she  had 
aided  during  the  troubles  of  the  Fronde,  when  she  was  Mademoiselle  de 
Neuillant. 

'1  The  Lettre  sur  I'/mposfeur  (see  Introductory  Notice  to  this  play) 
mentions  a  couplet  of  Madame  Pernelle,  and  a  biting  answer  of  Cl^ante, 
which  were  spoken  at  the  first  representation  of  Tartnffe,  then  called 
r Imposteur,  and  which,  no  doubt,  Moli^re  afterwards  suppressed. 


400  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  i. 

never  hears  a  pious  word  uttered  at  any  of  them ;  nothing 
but  tittle-tattle,  nonsense,  and  silly  prattle.  Very  often 
our  neighbour  comes  in  for  his  share  of  it,  and  there  is 
back-biting  going  on  right  and  left.  In  short,  sensible 
people  have  their  heads  turned  by  the  confusion  of  such 
meetings.  A  thousand  idle  stories  are  told  in  no  time ; 
and,  as  a  certain  doctor  said  very  aptly  the  other  day,  it 
is  a  perfect  tower  of  Babylon, ^^  for  every  one  chatters  to 
his  heart's  content;  and  to  show  you  what  brought  this 
up.  .  .  .  {Pointing  to  Cleante).  But  here  is  this  gentle- 
man giggling  already !  Go  and  look  for  some  fools  to 
laugh  at,  and  without  .  .  .  {To  Elmire).  Good  bye, 
daughter-in-law;  I  will  say  no  more.  I  make  you  a 
present  of  the  rest,  but  it  will  be  a  fine  day  when  I  set 
my  foot  in  your  house  again.  {Slapping  Flipote's  face). 
Come  along  you,  you  stand  dreaming  and  gaping  here. 
Ods  bobs  !  I  shall  warm  your  ears  for  you.  March  on, 
slut,  march  on. 

Scene  II. — Cleante,  Dorine. 

Cle.  I  shall  not  go  with  her,  for  fear  she  should  fall  foul 
of  me  again  ;  that  this  good  lady  .  .  . 

Dor.  Ah !  it  is  a  pity  that  she  does  not  hear  you  say  so : 
she  would  tell  you  that  you  are  good,  but  that  she  is  not 
yet  old  enough  to  be  called  so. 

Cle.  How  she  fired  up  against  us  for  nothing  !  And 
how  infatuated  she  seems  with  her  Tartuffe  ! 

Dor.  Oh  !  indeed,  all  this  is  nothing  compared  with  the 
son :  and  if  you  saw  him,  you  would  say  it  is  much  worse. 
During  our  troubles  ^  he  acted  like  a  man  of  sense,  and 
displayed  some  courage  in  the  service  of  his  prince;^  but 
since  he  has  grown  so  fond  of  this  Tartuffe,  he  is  become 
a  perfect  dolt.     He  calls  him  brother,  and  loves  him  in 

^  Madame  Pemelle  says  "  the  Tower  of  Babylon,"  instead  of  "  the 
Tower  of  Babel.'"  A  certain  Jesuit,  Caussin  (1583-1651),  wrote  in  one 
of  his  books,  The  Holy  Court,  that  "men  built  the  tower  of  Babel,  and 
women  the  tower  of  Babble  {Babil)." 

"  This  refers  to  the  troubles  of  the  Fronde,  during  the  minority  of 
Louis  XIV. 

**  The  Lettre  sur  V Imposteur  shows  that  this  play  was  originally  some- 
what different  here. 


SCKNB  HI.]  TARTUFFE ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  40I 

his  very  soul  a  hundred  times  better  than  either  mother, 
son,  daughter,  or  wife.  He  is  the  sole  confidant  of  all  his 
secrets,  and  the  prudent  director  of  all  his  actions  ;  he 
caresses  him,  embraces  him  ;  and  one  could  show  no  more 
affection,  I  think,  to  a  mistress.  He  will  have  him  seated 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  and  is  delighted  to  see  him 
eat  as  much  as  half  a  dozen ;  the  choicest  morsels  of  every- 
thing must  be  given  to  him ;  and,  if  he  happens  to  belch, 
he  sayfe  to  him  "God  preserve  you."'*  In  short,  he  is 
crazy  about  him ;  he  is  his  all,  his  hero ;  he  admires  every- 
thing he  does,  he  quotes  him  on  all  occasions ;  he  looks 
upon  his  most  trifling  actions  as  miracles,  and  every  word 
he  utters  is  considered  an  oracle.  The  other,  who  knows 
his  dupe,  and  wishes  to  make  the  most  of  him,  has  the  art 
of  dazzling  him  by  a  hundred  deceitful  appearances.  His 
pretended  devotion  draws  money  from  him  at  every  hour 
of  the  day ;  and  assumes  the  right  of  commenting  upon 
the  conduct  of  every  one  of  us.  Even  the  jackanapes,  his 
servant,  pretends  also  to  read  us  a  lesson ;  he  comes 
preaching  to  us  with  fierce  looks,  and  throws  away  our 
ribbons,  our  paint,  and  our  patches.  Only  the  other  day, 
the  wretch  tore  a  handkerchief  which  he  had  found  be- 
tween the  leaves  of  **  The  Flower  of  the  Saints,''''  ^  saying 
that  it  was  a  dreadful  sin  to  bring  these  holy  things  into 
contact  with  the  devil's  deckings. 

Scene  HI. — Elmire,   Mariane,    Damis,    Cleante, 

DORINE. 

Elm.  (^To  Cleante).  You  are  very  fortunate  not  to 
have  assisted  at  the  speech  to  which  she  treated  us  at  the 
door.  But  I  have  just  seen  my  husband ;  and  as  he  did 
not  see  me,  I  shall  go  up  stairs  to  await  his  coming. 

'6  All  the  original  editions  have  the  following  note,  which  may  probably 
be  attributed  to  Moli^re  :  "  It  is  a  servant  who  speaks." 

8*  This  book  was  called  Flos  Sanctorum,  o  libro  de  las  vidas  de  los 
Santos,  and  was  written  by  Pedro  Ribadeneira,  a  celebrated  Spanish 
Jesuit  (1527-1611).  It  was  translated  into  French  as  Fleurs  des  vies  des 
Saints,  and  published  in  Paris  in  1641,  and  at  Lyons  in  1666,  in  two  folio 
volumes ;  and  later  in  English,  as  Lives  of  the  Saints,  and  in  the  same 
number  of  volumes.  There  was  also  another  book,  originally  in  French, 
with  the  same  title,  written  by  a  Jesuit.  Bonnefons.  published  first  in  1663, 
and  which  had  already  reached  its  third  edition  in  1664. 

VOL.  II.  2A 


402  TARTUFFE;   or,   the  hypocrite.  [Acrt 

Cle.  I  will  wait  for  him  here,  with  small  pleasure;  and 
merely  say  how  do  ye  do  to  him. 

Scene  IV. — Cleante,  DaxMis,  Dorine. 

Dam.  Just  sound  him  about  this  marriage  of  my  sister. 
I  suspect  that  Tartuffe  is  opposed  to  it,  because  he  makes 
my  father  use  so  many  evasions ;  and  you  are  not  igno- 
rant how  greatly  I  am  interested  in  it  .  .  .If  the  same 
passion  fires  my  sister's  and  Valere's  heart,  the  sister  of 
this  friend  is,  as  you  know,  dear  to  me ;  and  if  it  were 
necessary  .    .    . 

Dor.  Here  he  is. 

Scene  V. — Orgon,  Cleante,  Dorine. 

Org.  Ha !  good  morrow,  brother. 

Cle.  I  was  just  going,  and  am  glad  to  see  you  returned. 
The  country  is  not  very  cheering  at  present. 

Org.  Dorine  .  .  .  (Ti?  Cleante).  Pray,  one  moment, 
brother-in-law.  Allow  me  to  inquire  the  news  here  to  ease 
my  mind.  i^To  Dorine).  Has  everything  gone  on  well 
these  two  days  ?  What  are  they  doing,  and  how  are  they 
all? 

Dor.  The  day  before  yesterday  my  mistress  had  an 
attack  of  fever  until  evening,  accompanied  by  an  extraor- 
dinary headache. 

Org,  And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  Tartuffe  !  He  is  wonderfully  well,  stout  and  fat, 
with  a  fresh  complexion,  and  a  ruddy  mouth. 

Org.  Poor  fellow  ! 

Dor.  In  the  evening  she  felt  very  sick,  and  could  not 
touch  a  morsel  of  supper,  so  violent  was  still  the  pain  in 
her  head. 

Org.  And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  He  supped  by  himself  in  her  presence  ;  and  very 
devoutly  ate  two  partridges,  and  half  a  leg  of  mutton 
hashed. 

Org.  Poor  fellow ! 

Dor.  The  whole  night  she  did  not  close  her  eyes  for  a 
moment.  She  was  so  feverish  that  she  could  not  sleep, 
and  we  were  obliged  to  sit  up  with  her  until  morning. 

Org.  And  Tartuffe  ? 


SCENE  VI.]  TARTUFFE ;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  403 

Dor.  Pleasantly  overcome  with  sleep,  he  went  to  his 
room  when  he  left  the  table ;  and  jumped  into  his  cozy 
bed,  where  he  slept  undisturbed  until  morning. 

Org.  Poor  fellow ! 

Dor.  We  at  length  prevailed  upon  the  mistress  to  be 
bled  ;  and  she  was  almost  immediately  relieved. 

Org.  And  Tartuffe  ? 

Dor.  He  picked  up  his  courage  again  as  he  ought  to ; 
and,  to  fortify  himself  against  all  harm,  he  drank  four 
large  draughts  of  wine  at  breakfast,  to  make  up  for  the 
blood  that  the  mistress  had  lost. 

Org.  Poor  fellow  ! 

Dor.  At  present,  they  are  both  well ;  and  I  shall  go 
and  inform  the  mistress  how  glad  you  feel  at  her  recovery. 

Scene  VI. — Orgon,  Cleante. 

Cle.  She  is  laughing  at  you  to  your  face,  brother :  and, 
without  wishing  to  make  you  angry,  I  must  tell  you  can- 
didly that  it  is  not  without  reason.  Was  there  ever  such 
a  whim  heard  of?  Can  it  be  possible  that  any  man  could 
so  charm  you  now-a-days  as  to  make  you  forget  every- 
thing for  him  ?  That  after  having  relieved  his  indigence, 
in  your  own  house,  you  should  go  as  far  as  .  .    . 

Org.  Stop,  brother-in-law,  you  do  not  know  the  man 
of  whom  you  are  speaking  ? 

Cle.  I  do  not  know  him,  if  you  like ;  but  after  all,  in 
order  to  know  what  sort  of  man  he  is  .    .    . 

Org.  You  would  be  charmed  to  know  him,  brother  j 
and  there  would  be  no  end  to  your  delight.  He  is  a  man 
.  .  .  who  .  .  .  ah  .  .  .a  man  ...  in  short,  a  man." 
One  who  acts  up  to 'his  own  precepts,  enjoys  a  profound 
peace,  and  looks  upon  the  whole  world  as  so  much  dirt. 
Yes;  I  am  quite  another  man  since  I  conversed  with  him; 
he  teaches  me  to  set  my  heart  upon  nothing  ;  he  detaches 
my  mind  from  all  friendship  ;  and  I  could  see  brother, 
children,  mother,  and  wife  die,  without  troubling  myself 
in  the  least  about  it. 

'^  This  line  has  given  rise  to  many  different  reading's ;  but  according 
to  the  Lettre  sur  V Imposteur,  and  of  which  a  resume  is  given  in  the  In- 
troductory Notice  to  this  play,  Orgon  intends  to  quote  all  the  good 
qualities  of  Tartuffe,  and  can  find  nothing  else  to  say  of  him  but  that  he 
is  a  man. 


404  TARTUFFE  ;    OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  fACT  I. 

Cle.  Humane  sentiments  these,  brother  ! 

Org.  Ah !  if  you  had  seen  how  I  first  met  him,  you 
would  have  conceived  the  same  friendship  for  him  that  I 
feel.  Every  day  he  came  to  church,  and,  with  a  gentle 
mien,  kneeled  down  opposite  me.  He  attracted  the  notice 
of  the  whole  congregation  by  the  fervency  with  which  he 
sent  up  his  prayers  to  heaven.  He  uttered  sighs,  was  en- 
raptured, and  humbly  kissed  the  ground  every  moment : 
and  when  I  went  out,  he  swiftly  ran  before  me  to  offer  me 
holy  water  at  the  door.  Informed  by  his  servants,  who 
imitates  him  in  everything,  of  his  poverty,  and  who  he 
was,  I  made  him  some  presents  :  but,  with  great  modesty, 
he  always  wished  to  return  some  part  of  them.  "  It  is  too 
much,"  he  said  j  "too  much  by  half ;  I  do  not  deserve 
your  pity."  And  when  I  refused  to  take  them  back  again, 
he  would  go  and  give  them  to  the  poor  before  my  face. 
At  length  Heaven  moved  me  to  take  him  to  my  house, 
and  since  then,. everything  seems  to  prosper  here.  I  per- 
ceive that  he  reproves  everything,  and  that  he  takes  a 
great  interest,  even  in  my  wife,  for  my  sake.  He  warns 
me  of  the  people  who  look  too  lovingly  at  her,  and  he  is 
six  times  more  jealous  of  her  than  I  am.  But  you  cannot 
believe  how  far  his  zeal  goes  :  the  slightest  trifle  in  him- 
self he  calls  a  sin  ;  a  mere  nothing  is  sufficient  to  shock 
him ;  so  much  so  that  he  accused  himself,  the  other  day, 
of  having  caught  a  flea  whilst  he  was  at  his  devotions,  and 
of  having  killed  it  with  too  much  anger.*® 

Cle.  Zounds !    I  believe  you   are  mad,  brother.     Are 


**  Moliftre  takes  care  to  demonstrate,  from  the  very  beginning,  that 
Tartuffe  is  a  hypocrite,  and  the  whole  speech  of  Orgon  shows  him  to  be 
so.  The  killing  of  the  flea  is  taken  from  the  life  of  Saint  Macarius  in 
Giacomo  da  Voragine  (1230-1298),  Historia  Lombardica,  sen  Le^enda 
Sanctorum,  which  was  more  familiarly  known  as  the  Lezenda  aurea,  or 
Golden  Legend.  The  first  English  edition  was  one  of  the  books  which 
Caxton  printed  and  published  in  1483.  The  story  is  thus  related,  by  the 
Rev.  Alban  Butler,  in  The  Lives  of  the  Saints :  ''  Saint  Macarius  hap- 
pened one  day  to  kill  a  gnat  that  was  biting  him  in  his  cell  ;  reflecting 
that  he  had  lost  the  opportunity  of  suffering  that  mortification,  he  hastened 
from  the  cell  for  the  marshes  of  Scet^,  which  abound  with  great  flies, 
whose  stings  pierce  even  wild  boars.  There  he  continued  six  months,  ex- 
posed to  those  ravaging  insects ;  and  to  such  a  degree  was  his  whole  body 
disfigured  by  them  with  sores  and  swellings,  that  when  he  retvimed,  he  was 
only  to  be  known  by  his  voice." 


SCENE  VI.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  4DS 

you  making  game  of  me  with  such  a  speech  ?  and  do  you 
pretend  that  all  this  fooling  .    .    . 

Org,  Brother,  this  discourse  savours  of  free-thinking.** 
You  are  somewhat  tainted  with  it ;  and,  as  I  have  often 
told  you,  you  will  get  yourself  into  some  unpleasant 
scrape. 

Cle.  The  usual  clap-trap  of  your  set ;  they  wish  every- 
one to  be  blind  like  themselves.  To  keep  one's  eyes  open 
is  to  be  a  free-thinker ',  and  whosoever  does  not  worship 
pretentious  affections  has  neither  respect  for,  nor  faith  in  4. 
holy  things.  Go  along  ;  all  your  speeches  do  not  frighten 
me ;  I  know  what  I  am  saying,  and  Heaven  sees  my  heart. 
We  are  not  the  slaves  of  your  formalists.  There  are  hypo- 
crites in  religion  as  well  as  pretenders  to  courage  ;  and  as 
we  never  find  the  truly  brave  man  make  much  noise  where 
honour  leads  him,  no  more  are  the  good  and  truly  pious, 
whom  we  ought  to  follow,  those  who  make  so  many  gri- 
maces. What !  would  you  make  no  distinction  between 
hypocrisy  and  true  devotion  ?  Would  you  treat  them  both 
alike,  and  give  the  same  honour  to  the  mask  as  to  the 
face ;  put  artifice  on  a  level  with  sincerity,  confound  ap- 
pearance with  reality,  value  the  shadow  as  much  as  the 
substance ;  and  false  coin  the  same  as  real  ?  Men,  for  the 
most  part,  are  strange  creatures,  and  never  keep  the  right 
mean;  reason's  boundaries  are  too  narrow  for  them;  in 
every  character  they  overact  their  parts ;  and  they  often 
spoil  the  noblest  designs,  because  they  exaggerate,  and 
carry  them  too  far.     This  by  the  way,  brother. 

Org.  Yes,  you  are   no  doubt  a  doctor  to  be  looked  up 
to  ;  you  possess  all  the  world's  wisdom  ;  you  are  the  only 
sage,  and  the  only  enlightened  man,  an  oracle,  a  Cato  of  ^ 
the  present  age;  and  all  men,  compared  with  you,  are 
fools. 

Cle.  I  am  not,  brother,  a  doctor  to  be  looked  up  to ; 
nor  do  I  possess  all  the  world's  wisdom.  But,  in  one  word, 
I  know  enough  to  distinguish  truth  from  falsehood.  And 
as  I  know  no  character  more  worthy  of  esteem  than  the 
truly  devout,  nor  anything  in  the  world  more  noble  or 


»9  The  original  has  libertinage,  which,  as  well  as  libertin,  libertine,  was 
formerly  employed  in  French,  as  well  as  in  English,  in  speaking  of  those 
who  took  great  liberty  with  the  belief  generally  entertained. 


4o6  TARTUFFE;   or,  the  hypocrite.  [acti. 

beautiful  than  the  holy  fervour  of  sincere  piety,  so  I  know 
nothing  more  odious  than  the  whited  sepulchre  of  a  pre- 
tended zealot,  than  those  downright  impostors,  those  de- 
votees, for  public  show,"  whose  sacrilegious  and  deceitful 
grimaces  abuse  with  impunity,  and  make  a  jest,  according 
to  their  fancy,  of  what  men  hold  most  holy  and  sacred  ; 
those  men  who,  from  motives  of  self-interest,  make  a  trade 
of  piety,  and  would  purchase  honour  and  reputation  at  the 
*"  cost  of  a  hypocritical  turning  up  of  the  eyes  and  pretended 
raptures ;  those  men,  I  say,  whom  we  see  possessed  with 
such  an  uncommon  ardour  for  the  next  world,  in  order 
to  make  their  fortunes  in  this;  who,  with  great  affectation 
and  many  prayers,  daily  recommend  and  preach  solitude 
in  the  midst  of  the  court ;  who  know  how  to  reconcile 
their  zeal  with  their  vices  ;  who  are  passionate,  vindictive, 
without  belief,  full  of  artifice,  and  would,  in  order  to  de- 
stroy a  man,  insolently  cover  their  fierce  resentment  under 
the  cloak  of  Heaven's  interests.  They  are  the  more  dan- 
gerous in  their  bitter  wrath  because  they  use  against  us 
weapons  which  men  reverence,  and  because  their  passion, 
for  which  they  are  commended,  prompts  them  to  assassi- 
nate us  with  a  consecrated  blade.  One  sees  too  many  of 
those  vile  characters,  but  the  really  devout  at  heart  are 
easily  recognized.  Our  age  has  shown  us  some,  brother, 
who  may  serve  us  as  glorious  examples.  Look  at  Ariston, 
look  at  Periandre,  Oronte,  Alcidamas,  Polydore,  Clitan- 
dre — no  one  disputes  their  title.  But  they  do  not  boast 
of  their  virtue.  One  does  not  see  this  unbearable  osten- 
tation in  them;  and  their  piety  is  human,  is  tractable; 
they  do  not  censure  all  our  doings,  they  think  that  these 
corrections  would  show  too  much  pride  on  their  part ;  and, 
leaving  big  words  to  others,  they  reprove  our  actions  by 
their  own.  They  do  not  think  anything  evil,  because  it 
seems  so,  and  their  mind  is  inclined  to  judge  well  of  others. 
They  have  no  cabals,  no  intrigues  ;  all  their  anxiety  is  to 
live  well  themselves.  They  never  persecute  a  sinner ;  they 
hate  sin  only,  and  do  not  vindicate  the  interest  of  Heaven 
with  greater  zeal  than  Heaven  itself.  These  are  my  people, 

**•  The  original  has  devots  de  place.  In  former  times,  servants  who 
wished  to  be  hired,  went  to  the  market-place  to  show  themselves ;  these 
were  called  domestiqius  de  place  ;  hence  Molifere  coined  devots  de  place. 


SCENE  VI.]  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  407 

that  is  the  true  way  to  act ;  that  is,  in  short,  an  example 
to  be  followed.  To  say  the  truth,  your  man  is  not  of  that 
stamp;  you  vaunt  his  zeal  with  the  best  intention  ;  but  I 
believe  that  you  are  dazzled  by  a  false  glare. 

Org.  My  dear  brother-in-law,  have  you  had  your  say  ? 

Cle.  Yes. 

Org.   ( Going).     I  am  your  humble  servant. 

Cle.  Pray,  one  word  more,  brother.  Let  us  drop  this 
conversation.  You  know  that  Valere  has  your  promise  to 
be  your  son-in-law. 

Org.  Yes. 

Cle.  And  that  you  would  appoint  a  day  for  the  wed- 
ding. 

Org.  True. 

Cle.  Why  then  defer  the  ceremony? 

Org.  I  do  not  know. 

Cle.  Have  you  another  design  in  your  mind? 

Org.  Perhaps  so. 

Cle.  Will  you  break  your  word  ? 

Org.  I  do  not  say  that. 

Cle.  There  is  no  obstacle,  I  think,  to  prevent  you  from 
fulfilling  your  promise? 

Org.  That  is  as  it  may  be. 

Cle.  Why  so  much  ado  about  a  single  word  ?  Valere 
sent  me  to  you  about  it. 

Org.  Heaven  be  praised  for  that ! 

Cle.  But  what  answer  shall  I  give  him  ? 

Org.  Whatever  you  please. 

Cle.  But  it  is  necessary  to  know  your  intentions.  What 
are  they? 

Org.  To  do  just  what  Heaven  ordains, 

Cle.  But  to  the  point.  Valdre  has  your  promise :  will 
you  keep  it  or  not? 

Org.  Farewell. 

Cle.  {Alone).  I  fear  some  misfortune  for  his  love,  and 
I  ought  to  inform  him  of  what  is  going  on.  ^ 

*i  Several  of  Moli^re's  annotators  greatly  praise  this  first  act,  which 
gives,  as  it  were,  a  key  to  the  whole  comedy.  We  see  at  one  glance  the 
interior  of  Orgon's  household  :  the  silly  talk  of  an  old  woman ;  the  foolish 
infatuation  of  the  master  of  the  house  for  Tartuffe ;  the  pretended  reli- 
gious zeal  of  that  hypocrite ;  the  quiet  reserve  of  Elmire ;  Uie  impetuosity 


408  TARTUFFE;  or,   the  hypocrite.  [Acin. 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Orgon,  Mariane. 

Org.  Mariane. 

Mar.  Father? 

Org.    Come  here;    I  have   something  to  say  to  you 
privately. 

Mar.   {To  Orgon,  who  is  looking  into  a  closet).     What 
are  you  looking  for  ? 

Org.  I  am  looking  whether  there  is  anyone  there  who " 
might  overhear  us;  for  it  is  a  most  likely  little  place  for 
such  a  purpose.  ^    Now  we  are   all   right.     Mariane,  I 
have  always  found  you  of  a  sweet  disposition,  and  you 
have  always  been  very  dear  to  me. 

Mar.  I   am    much   obliged   to   you    for  this   fatherly 
affection. 

Org.  That  is  very  well  said,  daughter ;  and  to  deserve 
it,  your  only  care  should  be  to  please  me. 

Mar.  That  is  my  greatest  ambition. 

Org.  Very  well.     What  say  you  of  our  guest  Tartuffe? 

Mar.  Who?    I? 

Org.  You.     Be  careful  how  you  answer. 

Mar.  Alas  !  I  will  say  whatever  you  like  of  him. 

Scene  II. — Orgon,  Mariane,  Dorine,  {entering  softly  and 
keeping  behind  Orgon,  without  being  seen). 

Org.  That  is  sensibly  spoken  .  .  .  Tell  me  then,  my 
child,  that  he  is  a  man  of  the  highest  worth ;  that  he  has 

of  Damis,  the  son ;  the  sound  philosophy  of  Cleante ;  the  familiarity  and 
sharpness  of  the  servant  Dorine  :  the  gentle  timidity  of  Mariane  ;  every- 
thing which  afterwards  comes  out  in  the  play  is  foreshadowed  there,  even 
the  passion  of  Tartuffe  for  Elmire.  This  first  act  also  shows  how  every- 
thing in  the  house  is  in  dire  confusion  ;  religious  war  rages  there  with  all 
the  intensity  of  the  odium  theologicum. ;  the  grandmother  has  become  the 
foe  of  her  son's  children ;  the  father  wishes  to  tyrannize  over  his  daughter 
and  every  one  else ;  whilst,  on  the  other  side,  Damis  Is  always  in  a  rage, 
Dorine  for  ever  on  the  verge  of  impudence  and  even  the  calm  Cleante 
appears  to  have  some  difficulty  in  keeping  his  temper.  The  spirit  with 
which  Moli^re  opens  the  first  act  is  kept  up  throughout  the  whole  piece. 

"It  is  from  this  "most  likely  little  place"  that  Damis,  in  the  third 
Scene  of  the  third  Act,  overhears  Tartuffe  declaring  his  love  to  Elmire. 
Moli^re  always  takes  care  to  throw  out  such  bints,  in  order  to  prepare  the 
mind  for  what  is  to  come. 


SCENE  11.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  409 

touched  your  heart ;  and  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  you 
to  see  him,  with  my  approbation,  become  your  husband. 
He  ?     (Martane  draws  away  with  surprise). 

Mar.  He! 

Org.  What  is  the  matter? 

Mar.  What  did  you  say  ? 

Org.  What? 

Mar.  Did  I  mistake? 

Org.  How? 

Mar.  What  would  you  have  me  say  has  touched  my 
heart,  father,  and  whom  would  it  be  pleasant  to  have  for 
a  husband,  with  your  approbation  ? 

Org.  Tartuffe. 

Mar.  But  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind,  father,  I  assure 
you.     Why  would  you  have  me  tell  such  a  falsehood  ? 

Org.  But  I  wish  it  to  be  a  truth ;  and  it  is  sufficient 
for  you  that  I  have  resolved  it  so. 

Mar.  What,  father  would  you  .    .    . 

Org.  Yes,  daughter,  I  intend  by  your  marriage  to  unite 
Tartuffe  to  my  family.  He  shall  be  your  husband ;  I 
have  decided  that ;  and  as  on  your  duty  I  .  .  .  {Per- 
ceiving Dorine).  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  Your  anxious 
curiosity  is  very  great,  my  dear,  to  induce  you  to  listen  to 
us  in  this  manner. 

Dor.  In  truth,  I  do  not  know  whether  this  is  a  mere  ■ 
report,  arising  from  conjecture  or  from  chance ;  but  they 
have  just  told  me  the  news  of  this  marriage,  and  I  treated 
it  as  a  pure  hoax. 

Org.  Why  so  !    Is  the  thing  incredible  ? 

Dor.  So  much  so,  that  even  from  you,  Sir,  I  do  not 
believe  it. 

Org.  I  know  how  to  make  you  believe  it,  though.  • 

Dor.  Yes,  yes,  you  are  telling  us  a  funny  story. 

Org.  I  am  telling  you  exactly  what  you  will  see 
shortly. 

Dor.  Nonsense ! 

Org.  What  I  say  is  not  in  jest,  daughter. 

Dor.  Come,  do  not  believe  your  father ;  he  is  joking. 

Org.  I  tell  you  .   .   . 

Dor.  No,  you  may  say  what  you  like;  nobody  will 
believe  you. 


410  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  n. 

Org.   My  anger  will  at  last  .    .    . 

Dor.  Very  well !  we  will  believe  you  then ;  and  so 
much  the  worse  for  you.  What !  is  it  possible,  Sir,  that, 
with  that  air  of  common  sense,  and  this  great  beard  in 
the  very  midst  of  your  face,  you  would  be  foolish  enough 
to  be  willing  to  .    .    . 

Org.  Now  listen:  you  have  taken  certain. liberties  in 
this  house,  which  I  do  not  like  ;  I  tell  you  so,  my  dear. 

Dor.  Let  us  speak  without  getting  angry.  Sir,  I  beg.  Is 
it  to  laugh  at  people  that  you  have  planned  this  scheme  ? 
Your  daughter  is  not  suitable  for  a  bigot :  he  has  other 
things  to  think  about.  And,  besides,  what  will  such  a;i 
alliance  bring  you  ?  Why,  with  all  your  wealth,  go  and 
choose  a  beggar  for  your  son-in-law  .    .    . 

Org.  Hold  your  tongue.  If  he  has  nothing,  know  that 
it  is  just  for  that  that  we  ought  to  esteem  him.  His  po- 
verty is  no  doubt  an  honest  poverty;  it  ought  to  raise  him 
above  all  grandeur,  because  he  has  allowed  himself  to  be 
deprived  of  his  wealth  by  his  little  care  for  worldly  affairs, 
and  his  strong  attachment  to  things  eternal.  But  my 
assistance  may  give  him  the  means  of  getting  out  of  his 
troubles,  and  of  recovering  his  property.  His  estates  are 
well  known  in  his  country;  and,  such  as  you  see  him,  he 
is  quite  the  nobleman. 

Dor.  Yes,  so  he  says ;  and  this  vanity,  Sir,  does  not 
accord  well  with  piety.  Whosoever  embraces  the  inno- 
cence of  a  holy  life  should  not  boast  so  much  about  his 
name  and  his  lineage ;  and  the  humble  ways  of  piety  do 
but  ill  agree  with  this  outburst  of  ambition.  What  is  the 
good  of  this  pride  .  .  .  But  this  discourse  offends  you : 
let  us  speak  of  himself,  and  leave  his  nobility  alone. 
Would  you,  without  some  compunction,  give  a  girl  like 
her  to  a  man  like  him  ?  And  ought  you  not  to  have  some 
regard  for  propriety,  and  foresee  the  consequences  of  such 
a  union  ?  Be  sure  that  a  girl's  virtue  is  in  danger  when 
her  choice  is  thwarted  in  her  marriage:  that  her  living 
virtuously  depends  upon  the  qualities  of  the  husband 
whom  they  have  chosen  for  her,  and  that  those  whose 
foreheads  are  pointed  at  everywhere  often  make  of  their 
wives  what  we  see  that  they  are.  It  is,  in  short,  no  easy 
task   to  be  faithful  to  husbands  cut  out  after  a  certain 


SCENE  II.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  411 

model ;  and  he  who  gives  to  his  daughter  a  man  -whom 
she  hates,  is  responsible  to  Heaven  for  the  faults  she  com- 
mits.    Consider  to  what  perils  your  design  exposes  you. 

Org.  I  tell  you  I  must  learn  from  her  what  to  do  ! 

Dor.  You  cannot  do  better  than  follow  my  advice. 

Org.  Do  not  let  us  waste  any  more  time  with  this  silly 
prattle,  daughter;  I  am  your  father,  and  know  what  is 
best  for  you.  I  had  promised  you  to  Valere  ;  but  besides 
his  being  inclined  to  gamble,  as  I  am  told,  I  also  suspect 
him  to  be  somewhat  of  a  free-thinker ;  I  never  notice  him 
coming  to  church. 

Dor.  Would  you  like  him  to  run  there  at  your  stated 
hours,  like  those  who  go  there  only  to  be  seen  ? 

Org.  I  am  not  asking  your  advice  upon  that.  The 
other  candidate  for  your  hand  is,  in  short,  on  the  best  of 
terms  with  Heaven,  and  that  is  a  treasure  second  to  none. 
This  union  will  crown  your  wishes  with  every  kind  of 
blessings,  it  will  be  replete  with  sweetness  and  delight. 
You  shall  live  together  in  faithful  love,  really  like  two  chil- 
dren, like  two  turtle-doves ;  there  will  be  no  annoying 
disputes  between  you ;  and  you  will  make  anything  you 
like  of  him. 

Dor.  She  ?  she  will  never  make  anything  but  a  fool  ** 
of  him,  I  assure  you. 

Org.   Heyday  !  .what  language  ! 

Dor.  I  say  that  he  has  the  appearance  of  one,  and  that 
his  destiny,  Sir,  will  be  stronger  than  all  your  daughter's 
virtue. 

Org.  Leave  off  interrupting  me,  and  try  to  hold  your 
tongue,  without  poking  your  nose  into  what  does  not  con- 
cern you. 

Dor.  (She  continually  interrupts  him  when  he  turns 
round  to  speak  to  his  daughter^.  I  speak  only  for  your 
interest.  Sir. 

Org.  You  interest  yourself  too  much;  hold  your 
tongue,  if  you  please. 

Dor.  If  one  did  not  care  for  you  ... 

Org.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  care  for  me. 

Dor.  And  I  will  care  for  you,  Sir,  in  spite  of  yourself. 

•  ♦*  The  original  has  sot,  which  often  meant  also  a  victimized  husband. 


412  TARTUFFE;   or,   the  hypocrite.  [Acrn. 

Org.  Ah! 

Dor.  Your  honour  is  dear  to  me,  and  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  you  the  byeword  of  everyone. 

Org.  You  will  not  hold  your  tongue  ? 

Dor.  It  is  a  matter  of  conscience  to  allow  you  to  form 
such  an  alliance. 

Org.  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  you  serpent,  whose 
brazen  face  .    .    . 

Dor.  What !    you  are  religious,  and  fly  in  a  rage  ! 

Org.  Yes,  all  your  nonsense  has  excited  my  choler,  and 
once  for  all,  you  shall  hold  your  tongue. 

Dor.  Be  it  so.  But,  though  I  do  not  say  a  word,  I  will 
think  none  the  less. 

Org.  Think,  if  you  like ;  but  take  care  not  to  say  a 
word,  or  .  .  .  (^Turning  to  his  daughter).  That  will  do. 
As  a  sensible  man,  I  have  carefully  weighed  everything. 

Dor.  {Aside).  It  drives  me  mad  that  I  must  not 
speak. 

Org.   Without  being  a  fop,  TartufFe's  mien  is  such  .  .  . 

Dor.  Yes,  his  is  a  very  pretty  phiz  ! 

Org.  That  even  if  you  have  no  sympathy  with  his 
other  gifts  .    .    . 

Dor.  {Aside).  She  has  got  a  bargain  !  (  Organ  turns  to 
Dorine,  and,  with  crossed  arms,  listens  and  looks  her  in  the 
face).  If  I  were  in  her  place,  assuredly  no  man  should 
marry  me  against  my  will  with  impunity ;  and  I  would 
show  him,  and  that  soon  after  the  ceremony,  that  a  woman 
has  always  a  revenge  at  hand. 

Org.  (yTo  Dorine).     Then  you  do  not  heed  what  I  say? 

Dor.  What  are  you  grumbling  at  ?  I  did  not  speak  to  you. 

Org.  What  did  you  do  then? 

Dor.  I  was  speaking  to  myself. 

Org.  {Aside').  Very  well!  I  must  give  her  a  back- 
hander to  pay  her  out  for  her  extreme  insolence.  {He  puts 
himself  into  a  position  to  slap  Donne's  face;  aud,  at  every 
word  which  he  says  to  his  daughter,  he  turns  round  to  look 
at  Dorine,  who  stands  bolt  upright  without  speaking).  You 
ought  to  approve  of  my  plan,  daughter  .  .  .  and  believe 
that  the  husband  whom  I  have  selected  fojyou  .  .  .{To 
Dorine).     Why  do  you  not  speak  to  yourself? 

Dor.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  myself. 


SCENBiil.]  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE,  413 

Org.  Just  another  little  word. 

Dor.  It  does  not  suit  me. 

Org.  I  was  looking  out  for  you,  be  sure. 

Dor.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  you  think  me ! 

Org.  In  short,  daughter,  you  must  obey,  and  show  a 
complete  deference  to  my  choice. 

Dor.  {Running  away).  I  would  not  care  a  straw  for 
such  a  husband. 

Org.  {Failing  to  slap  Donne's  face).  You  have  a  pes- 
tilent hussy  with  you,  daughter,  with  whom  I  cannot  put 
up  any  longer  without  forgetting  myself  I  do  not  feel 
equal  to  continue  our  conversation  now;  her  insolent 
remarks  have  set  my  brain  on  fire,  and  I  must  have  a 
breath  of  air  to  compose  myself. 

Scene  III. — Mariane,  Dorine. 

Dor.  Tell  me  have  you  lost  your  speech  ?  And  must  I 
act  your  part  in  this  affair?  To  allow  such  a  senseless 
proposal  to  be  made  to  you,  without  saying  the  least  word 
against  it! 

Mar.  What  would  you  have  me  do  against  a  tyrannical 
father  ? 

Dor.  That  which  is  necessary  to  ward  off  such  a  threat. 

Mar.  What? 

Dor.  Tell  him  that  you  cannot  love  by  proxy,  that  you 
marry  for  yourself,  and  not  for  him ;  that  you  being  the 
only  one  concerned  in  this  matter,  it  is  you,  and  not  he, 
who  must  like  the  husband,  and  that  since  Tartuffe  is  so 
charming  in  his  eyes,  he  may  marry  him  himself  without 
let  or  hindrance. 

Mar.  Ah  !  a  father,  I  confess,  has  so  much  authority 
over  us,  that  I  have  never  had  the  courage  to  answer 
him. 

Dor.  But  let  us  argue  this  affair.  Valere  has  proposed 
for  you  :  do  you  love  him,  pray,  or  do  you  not  ? 

Mar.  Ah  !  you  do  my  feelings  great  injustice,  Dorine, 
to  ask  me  such  a  question.  Have  I  not  a  hundred  times 
opened  my  heart  to  you  ?  and  do  not  you  know  the 
warmth  of  my  affection  for  him  ? 

Dor.  How  do  I  know  whether  your  lips  have  spoken 


414  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  n. 

what  your  heart  felt  ?  and  whether  you  have  any  real  re- 
gard for  this  lover  ? 

Mar.  You  wrong  me  greatly  in  doubting  it,  Dorine ; 
for  my  true  sentiments  have  been  but  too  clearly  shown. 

Dor.   You  really  love  him,  then  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  very  passionately. 

Dor.  And,  to  all  appearance,  he  loves  you  as  well  ? 

Mar.  I  believe  so. 

Dor.  And  you  are  both  equally  eager  to  marry  each 
other  ? 

Mar.  Assuredly. 

Dor.  What  do  you  expect  from  this  other  match  then? 

Mar.  To  kill  myself,  if  they  force  me  to  it. 

Dor.  Very  well.  That  is  a  resource  I  did  not  think 
of;  you  have  only  to  die  to  get  out  of  trouble.  The  re- 
medy is  doubtless  admirable.  It  drives  me  mad  to  hear 
this  sort  of  talk. 

Mar.  Good  gracious  !  Dorine,  what  a  temper  you  get 
into  !  You  do  not  sympathize  in  the  least  with  people's 
troubles. 

Dor.  I  do  not  sympathize  with  people  who  talk  stu- 
pidly, and,  when  an  opportunity  presents  itself,  give  way 
as  you  do ! 

Mar.  But  what  would  you  have  me  do?  If  I  am 
timid  .    .    . 

Dor.  Love  requires  firmness. 

Mar.  But  have  I  wavered  in  my  affection  towards 
Valdre  ?  and  is  it  not  his  duty  to  obtain  a  father's  con- 
sent ? 

Dor.  But  what !  if  your  father  is  a  downright  churl, 
who  is  completely  taken  up  with  Tartuffe,  and  will  break 
off  a  match  he  had  agreed  on,  is  your  lover  to  be  blamed 
for  that  ? 

Mar.  But  am  I,  by  a  flat  refusal  and  a  scornful  disdain, 
to  let  everyone  know  how  much  I  am  smitten  ?  However 
brilliant  Valere  may  be,  am  I  to  forget  the  modesty  of  my 
sex,  and  my  filial  duty  ?  And  would  you  have  me  display 
my  passion  to  the  whole  world  .    .    . 

Dor.  No,  I  would  have  you  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I 
perceive  that  you  would  like  to  be  Mr.  Tartuffe's ;  and  I 
should  be  wrong,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  to  turn 


scBNBin.]  TARTUFFE;  or,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  415 

you  from  such  a  union.  What  right  have  I  to  oppose 
your  wishes  ?  The  match  in  itself  is  very  advantageous. 
Monsieur  Tartuffe  !  oh,  oh  !  is  no  small  fry.  Certainly 
Monsieur  Tartuffe,  all  things  considered,  is  no  fool;**  no, 
not  at  all,  and  it  is  no  small  honour  to  be  his  better  half. 
Already  every  one  crowns  him  with  glory.  He  is  a  noble 
in  his  own  country,  handsome  in  appearance;  he  has  red 
ears  and  a  florid  complexion.  You  will  live  only  too 
happily  with  such  a  husband. 

Mar.   Good  gracious  !  .    .    . 

Dor.  How  joyful  you  will  be  to  see  yourself  the  wife 
of  such  a  handsome  husband  ! 

Mar.  Ah  !  leave  off  such  talk,  I  pray,  and  rather  assist 
me  to  free  myself  from  this  match.  It  is  finished:  I  yield, 
and,  am  ready  to  do  anything. 

Dor.  No,  a  daughter  ought  to  obey  her  father,  even  if 
he  wishes  her  to  marry  an  ape.  Yours  is  an  enviable 
fate:  of  what  do  you  complain?  You  will  drive  down  in 
the  stage-coach  to  his  native  town,  where  you  will  find, 
plenty  of  uncles  and  cousins,  whom  it  will  be  your  great 
delight  to  entertain.  You  will  be  introduced  directly  into 
the  best  society.  You  will  go  and  pay  the  first  visits  to 
the  wife  of  the  bailie,  ^  and  of  the  assessor,  **  who  will  do 
you  the  honour  of  giving  you  a  folding-chair.  *'  There, 
at  carnival  time,  you  may  expect  a  ball,  with  the  grand 
band*®  of  musicians,  to  wit,  two  bagpipes,  and  sometimes 


**  The  original  has  ''  Monsieur  Tartuffe  .  .  .  n'est pas  un  homme  .  .  . 
qui  se  tnouche  du  pied;  literally,  '' Mr.  Tartuffe  ...  is  not  a  man  who 
blows  his  nose  with  his  foot."  To  pretend  to  blow  one's  nose  with  one's 
foot  was  considered  a  favourite  trick  of  jugglers  and  acrobats ;  hence  a 
man  who  could  do  such  a  thing  was  no  fool. 

*5  The  bailli,  whose  office  dates  probably  from  the  eleventh  century, 
was  the  representative  of  the  king  or  lord  in  the  northern  provinces  of 
France ;  wliilst  in  the  west  and  south  he  was  called  the  senechil.  But,  in 
Moli^re's  time,  the  duties  of  their  office  had  been  much  reduced ;  they 
could  no  longer  call  out  the  military  force,  or  regulate  the  finances  of  any 
province.  They  were  simply  ^  kind  of  minor  judges,  though  nominally 
at  the  head  of  the  provincial  nobility. 

«  In  French  I'elue.  The  elu  was  a  kind  of  assessor  who  regulated  the 
taxes. 

*'  A  folding-chair  was  always  given  to  people  of  inferior  rank  to  sit  on 
when  in  the  presence  of  their  superiors. 

*^  In  French  la  grand'  bande.  In  Moliere's  time  any  band  of  musi- 
cians was  called  wie  bande,  just  as  in  English  "  band  "  is  used  now.   There 


4l6  TARTUFFE;   or,  the  hypocrite.  [acth. 

Fagotin*®  and  the  marionnettes.  If  your  husband,  how- 
ever .    .    . 

Mar.  Oh !  you  kill  me.  Try  rather  to  assist  me  with 
your  counsels. 

Dor.  I  am  your  servant. 

Mar.  Ah  !  for  pity's  sake,  Dorine  .    .    . 

Dor.  This  affair  ought  to  go  on,  to  punish  you. 

Mar.  There  is  a  good  girl ! 

Dor.  No. 

Mar.  If  I  declare  to  you  that  .    .    . 

Dor.  Not  at  all.  Tartuffe  is  your  man,  and  you  shall 
have  a  taste  of  him. 

Mar.  You  know  that  I  have  always  confided  in  you : 
do  .    .    . 

Dor.  No,  it  is  of  no  use,  you  shall  be  Tartuffed. 

Mar.  Very  well,  since  my  misfortunes  cannot  move 
you,  leave  me  henceforth  entirely  to  my  despair.  My 
heart  shall  seek  help  from  that ;  and  I  know  an  infallible 
remedy  for  my  sufferings.  (^She  wishes  to  go. 

Dor.  Stop,  stop,  come  back.  I  give  in.  In  spite  of  all, 
I  must  take  compassion  on  you. 

Mar.  Look  here,  Dorine,  if  they  inflict  this  cruel  mar- 
tyrdom upon  me,  I  shall  die  of  it,  I  tell  you. 

Dor.  Do  not  worry  yourself.  We  will  cleverly  pre- 
vent .    .    .  But  here  comes  Valere,  your  lover. 

Scene  IV. — ^Val^re,  Mariane,  Dorine. 

Val.  I  have  just  been  told  a  piece  of  news.  Madam, 
which  I  did  not  know,  and  which  is  certainly  very  pretty. 

Mar.  What  is  it  ? 

Val.  That  you  are  going  to  be  married  to  Tartuffe. 

Mar.  My  father  has  taken  this  idea  into  his  head,  cer- 
tainly. 

Var.  Your  father.  Madam  .    .    . 

Mar.  Has  altered  his  mind  :  he  has  just  proposed  this 
affair  to  me. 

was  then  at  Court  la  bande  des  Vingt-  Quatre,  or  the  great  violins,  and  la 
fetite  bande,  or  the  little  violins,  of  which  Lulli  was  the  conductor. 
There  was  also  a  third  bande,  that  of  the  Grande- E curie. 

*8  Fagotin  was  the  name  of  a  famous  trained  monkey,  very  much  ad- 
mired in  Paris,  in  Moli^re's  time.  La  Fontaine  mentions  him  in  his 
fable  of  The  Court  of  the  Lion. 


SCENE  IV.]  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE.  417 

Val.   What !  seriously  ? 

Mar.  Yes,  seriously,  he  has  openly  declared  himself  for 
this  match. 

Val.  And  what  have  you  decided,  in  your  own  mind. 
Madam  ? 

Mar.  I  know  not. 

Val.  The  answer  is  polite.     You  know  not  ? 

Mar,  No. 

Val.  No? 

Mar.  What  do  you  advise  me  ? 

Val.  I,  I  advise  you  to  take  this  husband. 

Mar.  Is  that  your  advice  ? 

Val.  Yes. 

Mar.  Seriously? 

Val.  Doubtless.  The  choice  is  glorious,  and  well 
worth  consideration. 

Mar.  Very  well,  Sir,  I  shall  act  upon  the  advice. 

Val.   That  will  not  be  very  painful,  I  think. 

Mar.  Not  more  painful  than  for  you  to  give  it. 

Val.  I  gave  it  to  please  you,  Madam. 

Mar.  And  I  shall  follow  it  to  please  you. 

Dor.  (yRe tiring  to  the  further  part  of  the  stage).  Let  us 
see  what  this  will  come  to. 

Val.  This  then  is  your  affection  ?  And  it  was  all  de- 
ceit when  you  .    .    . 

Mar.  Do  not  let  us  speak  of  that,  I  pray.  You  have 
told  me  quite  candidly  that  I  ought  to  accept  the  husband 
selected  for  me ;  and  I  declare  that  I  intend  to  do  so, 
since  you  give  me  this  wholesome  advice. 

Val.  Do  not  make  my  advice  your  excuse.  Your  reso- 
lution was  taken  beforehand ;  and  you  catch  at  a  frivolous 
pretext  to  justify  the  breaking  of  your  word. 

Mar.   Very  true,  and  well  put. 

Val.  No  doubt ;  and  you  never  had  any  real  affection 
for  me. 

Mar.  Alas  !   think  so,  if  you  like. 

Val.  Yes,  yes,  if  I  like ;  but  my  offended  feelings  may 
perhaps  forestall  you  in  such  a  design ;  and  I  know  where 
to  offer  both  my  heart  and  my  hand. 

Mar.  Ah  !  I  have  no  doubt  of  it ;  and  the  love  which 
merit  can  command  .    .    . 

VOL.   II.  2B 


4l8  TARTUFFE;   or,  the  hypocrite.  Tact  11. 

Val.  For  Heaven's  sake,  let  us  drop  merit,  I  have  but 
little,  no  doubt ;  and  you  have  given  proof  of  it.  But  I 
hope  much  from  the  kindness  of  some  one  wliose  heart  is 
open  to  me,  and  who  will  not  be  ashamed  to  consent  to 
repair  my  loss. 

Mar.  The  loss  is  not  great :  and  you  will  easily  enough 
console  yourself  for  this  change. 

Val.  I  shall  do  my  utmost,  you  may  depend.  A  heart 
that  forgets  us  wounds  our  self  love ;  we  must  do  our  best 
to  forget  it  also  ;  if  we  do  not  succeed,  we  must  at  least 
pretend  to  do  so  :  for  the  meanness  is  unpardonable  of 
still  loving  when  we  are  forsaken. 

Mar.  This  is,  no  doubt,  an  elevated  and  noble  senti- 
ment. 

Val.  It  is  so  ;  and  every  one  must  approve  of  it. 
What !  would  you  have  me  forever  to  nourish  my  ardent 
affection  for  you,  and  not  elsewhere  bestow  that  heart 
which  you  reject,  whilst  I  see  you,  before  my  face,  pass 
into  the  arms  of  another? 

Mar.  On  the  contrary  ;  as  for  me,  that  is  what  I  would 
have  you  do,  and  I  wish  it  were  done  already. 

Val.  You  wish  it? 

Mar.  Yes. 

Val.  That  is  a  sufficient  insult.  Madam;  and  I  shall 
satisfy  you  this  very  moment.  {He  pretends  to  go. 

Mar.   Very  well. 

Val.  (^Coming  back).  Remember  at  least,  that  you 
yourself  drive  me  to  this  extremity. 

Mar.  Yes. 

Val.  ( Coming  back  once  more).  And  that  I  am  only 
following  your  example. 

Mar.    Very  well,  my  example. 

Val.  {Going).  That  will  do  :  you  shall  be  obeyed  on 
the  spot. 

Mar.   So  much  the  better. 

Val.  {Coming  back  again).  This  is  the  last  time  that 
you  will  ever  see  me. 

Mar.  That  is  right. 

Val.   (  Goes,  and  turns  round  at  the  door).     He  ? 

Mar.    What  is  the  matter  ? 

Val.   Did  not  you  call  me  ? 


SCENE  IV.]  TARTUFFE^   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  419 

Mar.  I !  ■    You  are  dreaming. 

Val.  Well !  then  I  will  be  gone.     Farewell,  Madam. 

{He  goes  slowly. 

Mar.  Farewell,  Sir. 

Dor.  {To  Mariane).  I  think  that  you  are  losijig  your 
senses  with  all  this  folly.  I  have  all  along  allowed  you  to 
quarrel,  to  see  what  it  would  lead  to  at  last.  Hullo,  Mr. 
Valere.  {She  takes  hold  of  Valere' s  arm. 

Val.  {Pretending  to  resist).  He?  what  do  you  want, 
Dorine? 

Dor.  Cpme  here. 

Val.  No,  no,  I  feel  too  indignant.  Do  not  hinder  me 
from  doing  as  she  wishes  me. 

Dor.  Stop. 
.  Val.  No  ;  look  here,  I  have  made  up  my  mind. 

Dor.  Ah! 

Mar.  {Aside).  He  cannot  bear  to  see  me,  ray  presence 
drives  him  away  ;  and  I  had  therefore  much  better  leave 
the  place. 

Dor.  {Quitting  Valere  and  Thinning  after  Mariane). 
Now  for  the  other  !     Where  are  you  running  to  ? 

Mar.  Let  me  alone. 

Dor.  You  must  come  back. 

Mar.  No,  no,  Dorine  ;  it  is  of  no  use  detaining  me. 

Val.  {Aside).  I  see,  but  too  well,  that  the  sight  of  me 
annoys  her  ;  and  I  had,  no  doubt,  better  free  her  from  it. 

Dor.  {Leaving  Mariane  and  running  after  Valere). 
What,  again  !  The  devil  take  you  !  Yes.  I  will  have  it 
so.     Cease  this  fooling,  and  come  here  both  of  you. 

{She  holds  them  both. 

Val.  {To  Dorine).     But  what  are  you  about  ? 

Mar.  (  To  Dorine).     What  would  you  do  ? 

Dor.  I  would  have  you  make  it  up  together,  and  get 
out  of  this  scrape.  {To  Valere).  Are  you  mad  to  wran- 
gle in  this  way? 

Val.   Did  you  not  hear  how  she  spoke  to  me  ? 

Dor.  {To  Mariane).  Are  you  silly  to  have  got  into 
such  a  passion  ? 

Mar.  Did  you  not  see  the  thing,  and  how  he  has  treated 
me? 

Dor.   Folly  on  both  sides.     {,To  Valere).     She   has  no 


420  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  [act  n. 

Other  wish  than  to  remain  yours,  I  can  vouch  for  it.  (To 
Mariane).  He  loves  none  but  you,  and  desires  nothing 
more  than  to  be  your  husband.  I  will  answer  for  it  with 
my  life. 

Mar.  {To  Valere).  Why  then  did  you  give  me  such 
advice  ? 

Val.  {To  Mariane).  Why  did  you  ask  me  for  it  on 
such  a  subject  ? 

Dor.  You  are  a  pair  of  fools.  Come,  your  hands,  both 
of  you.     {To  Valere).     Come,  yours. 

Val.  (  Giving  his  hand  to  Dorine).  What  is  the  good  of 
my  hand  ? 

Dor.  ( To  Mariane).  Come  now  !  yours. 

Mar.  {Giving hers).  What  is  the  use  of  all  this? 

Dor.  Good  Heavens !  quick,  come  on.  You  love  each 
other  better  than  you  think.  (  Valere  and  Mariane  hold 
each  other's  hands  for  so?ne  time  without  speaking. 

Val.  {Turning  towards  Mariane),  Do  not  do  things 
with  such  a  bad  grace,  and  cast  a  glance  upon  one  without 
any  hatred.     {Mariane  turns  to  Valere,  and  smiles  on  him. 

Dor.  Truth  to  tell,  lovers  are  great  fools  ! 

Val.  {To  Mariane).  Now  really !  have  I  no  reason  to 
complain  of  you ;  and,  without  an  untruth,  are  you  not  a 
naughty  girl  to  delight  in  saying  disagreeable  things  ? 

Mar.  And  you,  are  you  not  the  most  ungrateful  fel- 
low .    .    . 

Dor.  Leave  all  this  debate  till  another  time,  and  let  us 
think  about  averting  this  confounded  marriage. 

Mar.  Tell  us,  then,  what  we  are  to  do. 

Dor.  We  must  do  many  things.  {To  Mariane).  Your 
father  does  but  jest;  {To  Valere),  and  it  is  all  talk.  {To 
Mariane).  But  as  for  you,  you  had  better  appear  to  comply 
quietly  with  his  nonsense,  so  that,  in  case  of  need,  it  may 
be  easier  for  you  to  put  off  this  proposed  marriage.  In 
gaining  time,  we  gain  everything.  Sometimes  you  can 
pretend  a  sudden  illness,  that  will  necessitate  a  delay; 
then  you  can  pretend  some  evil  omens,  that  you  unluckily 
met  a  corpse,  broke  a  looking-glass,  or  dreamed  of  muddy 
water.  In  short,  the  best  of  it  is  that  they  cannot  unite 
you  to  any  one  else  but  him,  unless  you  please  to  say  yes. 
But,  the  better  to  succeed,  I  think  it  advisable  that  you 


scKNEi.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  421 

should  not  be  seen  talking  together.  (7J?  Valere).  Now 
go;  and  without  delay,  employ  your  friends  to  make  Orgon 
keep  his  promise  to  you.  We  will  interest  her  brother, 
and  enlist  her  mother-in-law  on  our  side.     Good-bye. 

Val.  i^To  Mariane).  Whatever  efforts  we  may  make 
together,  my  greatest  hope,  to  tell  the  truth,  is  in  you. 

Mar.  (7J?  Valere).  I  cannot  answer  for  the  will  of  a 
father;  but  I  shall  be  no  one  but  Valere's. 

Val.  Oh,  how  happy  you  make  me !  And,  whatever 
they  may  attempt  .    .    . 

Dor.  Ah !  lovers  are  never  weary  of  prattling.  Be  off, 
I  tell  you. 

Val.   {Goes  a  step,  and  returns).  After  all  .    .    . 

Dor.  What  a  cackle !  Go  you  this  way ;  and  you,  the 
other.  {Dortne  pushes  each  of  them  by  the  shoulder,  and 
compels  them  to  separate.^ 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — Damis,  Dorine. 

Dam.  May  lightning  strike  me  dead  on  the  spot,  may 
every  one  treat  me  as  the  greatest  of  scoundrels,  if  any 
respect  or  authority  shall  stop  me  from  doing  something 
rash! 

Dor.  Curb  this  temper  for  Heaven's  sake:  your  father 
did  but  mention  it.  People  do  not  carry  out  all  their 
proposals ;  and  the  road  between  the  saying  and  the  doing 
is  a  long  one. 

Dam.  I  must  put  a  stop  to  this  fellow's  plots,  and 
whisper  a  word  or  two  in  his  ear. 

Dor.  Gently,  pray !  leave  him,  and  your  father  as  well, 
to  your  mother-in-law's  management.  She  has  some  in- 
fluence with  Tartuffe :  he  agrees  to  all  that  she  says,  and  I 
should  not  wonder  if  he  had  some  sneaking  regard  for  her. 
Would  to  Heaven  that  it  were  true !  A  pretty  thing  that 
would  be."    In  short,  your  interest  obliges  her  to  send 

*"  This  is  the  third  time  the  audience  has  heard  that  Tartuffe  loves  El- 
mire,  and  Moli^re  does  this  in  order  that  the  public  should  not  afterwards 
be  too  suddenly  horrified  when  the  hypocrite  is  vinmasked. 


422  TARTUFFE  ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  in. 

for  him :  she  wishes  to  sound  him  about  this  marriage  that 
troubles  you,  to  know  his  intentions,  and  to  acquaint  him 
with  the  sad  contentions  which  he  may  cause,  if  he  enter- 
tains any  hope  on  this  subject.  His  servant  told  me  he 
was  at  prayers,  and  that  I  could  not  get  sight  of  him ;  but 
said  that  he  was  coming  down.  Go,  therefore,  I  pray  you, 
and  let  me  wait  for  him. 

Dam.  I  may  be  present  at  this  interview. 
*     Dor.  Not  at  all.     They  must  be  alone. 

Dam.  I  shall  not  say  a  word  to  him. 

Dor.  You  deceive  yourself:  we  know  your  usual  out- 
bursts ;  and  that  is  just  the  way  to  spoil  all.     Go. 

Dam.  No  ;  I  will  see,  without  getting  angry. 

Dor.  How  tiresome  you  are  !  Here  he  comes.  Go 
away.  {Damis  hides  himself  in  a  closet  at  the  farther 

end  of  the  stage). 

Scene  II. — Tartuffe,  Dorine. 

Tar.  ( The  moment  he  perceives  Dorine,  he  begins  to 
speak  loudly  to  his  servant,  who  is  behind)!'^  Laurent,  put 
away  my  hair  shirt  and  my  scourge,  and  pray  that  Heaven 
may  ever  enlighten  you.  If  any  one  calls  to  see  me,  say 
that  I  have  gone  to  the  prisoners  to  distribute  the  alms 
which  I  have  received. 

Dor.    (Aside).     What  affectation  and  boasting  ! 

Tar.  What  do  you  want  ? 

Dor.  To  tell  you  .    .    . 

Tar.  {^Pulling  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket).  For 
Heaven's  sake  !  before  you  go  any  farther,  take  this  hand- 
kerchief, I  pray. 

Dor.   For  what  ? 

Tar.  Cover  this  bosom,  which  I  cannot  bear  to  see. 
The  spirit  is  offended  by  such  sights,  and  they  evoke 
sinful  thoughts. 

Dor.  You  are,  then,  mighty  susceptible  to  temptation ; 
and  the  flesh  seems  to  make  a  great  impression  on  your 

*i  The  foul  hero  of  the  play  only  makes  his  appearance  now,  in  the 
second  Scene  of  the  third  Act.  According  to  the  Lettre  sur  I' Imposteur 
(see  Introductory  Notice,  page  377),  this  was  done  by  Moli^re  on  pur- 
pose, because  such  a  character  could  appear  only  when  the  action  was  in 
full  force. 


SCENE  III.]  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  423 

senses  !  I  cannot  tell,  of  course,  what  heat  inflames  you : 
but  my  desires  are  not  so  easily  aroused ;  and  I  could  see 
you  naked  from  top  to  toe,  without  being  in  the  least 
tempted  by  the  whole  of  your  skin. 

Tar.  Be  a  little  more  modest  in  your  expressions,  or  I 
shall  leave  you  on  the  spot. 

Dor.  No,  no,  it  is  I  who  am  going  to  leave  you  to 
yourself;  and  I  have  only  two  words  to  say  to  you.  My 
mistress  is  coming  down  into  this  parlour,  and  wishes  the 
favor  of  a  minute's  conversation  with  you. 

Tar.  Alas  !  with  all  my  heart. 

Dor.  {Aside).  How  he  softens  down  !  Upon  my  word, 
I  stick  to  what  I  have  said  of  him. 

Tar.  Will  she  be  long? 

Dor.  Methinks  I  hear  her.  Yes,  it  is  herself,  and  I 
leave  you  together. 

Scene  III. — Elmire,  Tartuffe. 

Tar.  May  Heaven,  in  its  mighty  goodness,  for  ever  be- 
stow upon  you  health,  both  of  soul  and  body,  and  bless 
your  days  as  much  as  the  humblest  of  its  votaries  desires. 

Elm.  I  am  much  obliged  for  this  pious  wish.  But  let 
us  take  a  seat,  to  be  more  at  ease. 

Tar.  {Seated).  Are  you  quite  recovered  from  your  in- 
disposition ? 

Elm.   {Seated).  Quite ;  this  fever  has  soon  left  me. 

Tar.  My  prayers  are  not  deserving  enough  to  have 
drawn  this  grace  from  above ;  but  not  one  of  them  as- 
cended to  Heaven  that  had  not  your  recovery  for  its 
object. 

Elm.  You  are  too  anxious  in  your  zeal  for  me. 

Tar.  We  cannot  cherish  your  dear  health  too  much ; 
and  to  re-establish  yours,  I  would  have  given  mine. 

Elm.  That  is  pushing  Christian  charity  very  far ;  and  I 
feel  much  indebted  to  you  for  all  this  kindness. 

Tar.  I  do  much  less  for  you  than  you  deserve. 

Elm.  I  wished  to  speak  to  you  in  private  about  a  cer- 
tain matter,  and  am  glad  that  no  one  is  here  to  ob- 
serve us. 

Tar.  I  am  equally  delighted  ;  and  no  doubt,  it  is  very 
pleasant  to  me,  Madam,  to  find  myself  alone  with  you.    I 


424  TARTUFFE;   or,  the  hypocrite.  [Acrm. 

have  often  asked  this  opportunity  from  Heaven,  but,  till 
now,  in  vain. 

Elm.  What  I  wish  is  a  few  words  with  you,  upon  a 
small  matter,  in  which  you  bare  your  heart  and  conceal 
nothing  from  me.  {Damis,  without  showing  himself,  half 
opens  the  door  of  the  closet  into  which  he  had  retired  to  listen 
to  the  conversation). 

Tar.  And  I  will  also,  in  return  for  this  rare  favour,  un- 
bosom myself  entirely  to  you,  and  swear  to  you  that  the 
reports  which  I  have  spread  about  the  visits  which  you  re- 
ceive in  homage  of  your  charms,  do  not  spring  from  any 
hatred  towards  you,  but  rather  from  a  passionate  zeal 
which  carries  me  away,  and  out  of  a  pure  motive  .    .    . 

Elm.  That  is  how  I  take  it.  I  think  it  is  for  my  good 
that  you  trouble  yourself  so  much. 

Tar.  {Taking  Elmire^  s  hand  and  pressing  her  fingers'). 
Yes,  Madam,  no  doubt ;  and  my  fervour  is  such  .    .    . 

Elm.   Oh  !  you  squeeze  me  too  hard. 

Tar.  It  is  through  excess  of  zeal.  I  never  had  any  in- 
tention of  hurting  you,  and  would  sooner  .  .  .  {He places 
his  hand  on  Elmire' s  knee). 

Elm.  What  does  your  hand  there? 

Tar.  I  am  only  feeling  your  dress :  the  stuff  is  very 
soft. 

Elm.  Oh  !  please  leave  off,  I  am  very  ticklish.  {Elmire 
pushes  her  chair  back,  and  Tartuffe  draws  near  with  his). 

Tar.  {Handling  the  collar  of  Elmire).  Bless  me!  how 
wonderful  is  the  workmanship  of  this  lace  !  They  work  in 
a  miraculous  manner  now-a-days ;  never  was  anything  so 
beautifully  made.^* 

Elm,  It  is  true.  But  let  us  have  some  talk  about  our 
affair.  I  have  been  told  that  my  husband  wishes  to  retract 
his  promise,  and  give  you  his  daughter.  Is  it  true  ?  Tell 
me. 

Tar.  He  has  hinted  something  to  me  ;  but  to  tell  you 
the  truth.  Madam,  that  is  not  the  happiness  for  which  I 

"  Rabelais,  in  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  the  second  book  of  Pantagruet, 
says  of  Panurge :  "  When  he  came  into  the  company  of  some  good  ladies, 
he  would  trifle  them  into  a  discourse  of  some  fine  workmanship  of  bone- 
lace,  and  then  immediately  put  his  hand  into  their  bosom,  asking  them, 
'And  this  work,  is  it  of  Flanders,  or  of  Hainault?"* 


SCENE  III.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  425 

am  sighing :  I  behold  elsewhere  the  marvellous  attractions 
of  that  bliss  which  forms  the  height  of  my  wishes. 

Elm.  That  is  because  you  have  no  love  for  earthly 
things. 

Tar.  My  breast  does  not  contain  a  heart  of  flint. 

Elm.  I  believe  that  all  your  sighs  tend  towards  Heaven, 
and  that  nothing  here  below  rouses  your  desires. 

Tar.  The  love  which  attaches  us  to  eternal  beauties 
does  not  stifle  in  us  the  love  of  earthly  things;  our  senses 
may  easily  be  charmed  by  the  perfect  works  which  Heaven 
has  created.  Its  reflected  loveliness  shines  forth  in  such 
as  you  j  but  in  you  alone  it  displays  its  choicest  wonders. 
It  has  diffused  on  your  face  such  beauty,  that  it  dazzles 
the  eyes  and  transports  the  heart;  nor  could  I  behold  you, 
perfect  creature,  without  admiring  in  you  nature's  author, 
and  feeling  my  heart  smitten  with  an  ardent  love  for  the 
most  beautiful  of  portraits,  wherein  he  has  reproduced 
himself.  At  first  1  feared  that  this  secret  ardour  might  be 
nothing  but  a  cunning  snare  of  the  foul  fiend ;  and  my 
heart  even  resolved  to  fly  your  presence,  thinking  that  you 
might  be  an  obstacle  to  my  salvation.  But  at  last  I  found, 
oh  most  lovely  beauty,  that  my  passion  could  not  be 
blameable ;  that  I  could  reconcile  it  with  modesty ;  and 
this  made  me  freely  indulge  it.  It  is,  I  confess,  a  great 
presumption  in  me  to  dare  to  offer  you  this  heart ;  but  I 
expect,  in  my  affections,  everything  from  your  kindness, 
and  nothing  from  the  vain  efforts  of  my  own  weakness. 
In  you  is  my  hope,  my  happiness,  my  peace ;  on  you 
depends  my  torment  or  my  bliss;  and  it  is  by  your 
decision  solely  that  I  shall  be  happy  if  you  wish  it;  or 
miserable,  if  it  pleases  you. 

Elm.  The  declaration  is  exceedingly  gallant ;  but  it  is,  • 
to  speak  truly,  rather  a  little  surprising.     Methinks  you 
ought  to  arm  your  heart  better,  and  to  reflect  a  little  upon 
such  a  design.     A  pious  man  like  you,  and  who  is  every- 
where spoken  of  .    .    . 

Tar.  Ah  !  although  I  am  a  pious  man,  I  am  not  the 
less   a  man;*'   and,    when   one   beholds    your   heavenly 

M  Some  annotators  of  Moli^re  pretend  that  he  took  this  line  from  Cor- 
neille's  tragedy,  Sertorius,  where  we  find,  •'  And  though  I  am  a  Roman, 
I  am  not  the  less  a  man."  It  is  also  found  in  the  eighth  tale  of  the  third 
day  of  Boccaccio's  Decameron, 


426  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  [act  in. 

charms,  the  heart  surrenders  and  reasons    no  longer.     I 
know  that  such  discourse  from  me  must  appear  strange ; 
but,  after  all,   Madam,  I  am  not  an  angel ;   and  if  my 
confession  be  condemned  by  you,  you  must  blame  your 
own  attractions  for  it.     As  soon  as  I  beheld  their  niore 
than  human  loveliness,  you  became  the  queen  of  my  soul. 
The  ineffable   sweetness   of  your   divine    glances    broke 
down  the  resistance  of  my  obstinate  heart;  it  overcame 
everything — fastings,  prayers,  tears — and  led  all  my  de- 
sires to  your  charms.     My  looks  and  my  sighs  have  told 
you  so  a  thousand  times ;  and,  the  better  to  explain  my- 
self, I  now  make  use  of  words.     If  you  should    graciously 
contemplate  the  tribulations  of  your  unworthy  slave ;  if 
your  kindness  would  console  me,  and  will  condescend  to 
stoop  to  my  insignificant  self,  I  shall  ever  entertain  for 
you,  oh  miracle  of  sweetness,  an  unexampled  devotion. 
Your  honour  runs  not  the  slightest  risk  with  me,  and  need 
not  fear  the  least  disgrace  on  my  part.     All  these  court 
gallants,  of  whom  women  are  so  fond,  are  noisy  in  their 
doings  and  vain  in  their  talk ;  they  are  incessantly  plum- 
ing themselves   on  their  successes,  and   they  receive  no 
favours  which   they  do    not    divulge.      Their    indiscreet 
tongues,  in  which  people  confide,  desecrate  the  altar  on 
which  their  hearts  sacrifice.     But  men  of  our  stamp  love 
discreetly,  and  with  them  a  secret  is  always  surely  kept. 
The  care  which  we  take  of  our  own  reputation  is  a  suffi- 
cient guarantee  for  the  object  of  our  love ;  and  it  is  only 
with  ns,  when  they  accept  our  hearts,  that  they  find  love 
without  scandal,  and  pleasure  without  fear.** 

Elm.  I  have  listened  to  what  you  say,  and  your  rhetoric 
explains  itself  in  sufficiently  strong  terms  to  me.  But  are 
you  not  afraid  that  the  fancy  may  take  me  to  tell  my 
husband  of  this  gallant  ardour ;  and  that  the  prompt 
knowledge  of  such  an  amour  might  well  change  the 
friendship  which  he  bears  you. 

Tar.  I  know  that  you  are  too  gracious,  and  that  you 
will  pardon  my  boldness;    that  you  will  excuse,  on  the 

W  Boccaccio's  Feronde  uses  some  of  Tartuffe's  expressions  in  the  tale 
mentioned  in  note  53.  Regnier's  Macette  says  also  :  ''  More  discreet,  they 
(the  hypocrites)  know,  in  loving,  to  give  more  satisfaction,  though  with 
less  ostentation." 


SCENE  IV.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  427 

score  of  human  frailty,  the  violent  transports  of  a  passion 
which  offends  you,  and  consider,  by  looking  at  yourself,  that 
people  are  not  blind,  and  men  are  made  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Elm.  Others  would  perhaps  take  it  in  a  different  fashion ; 
but  I  shall  show  my  discretion.  I  shall  not  tell  the  matter 
to  my  husband:  but  in  return,  I  require  something  of 
you :  that  is,  to  forward,  honestly  and  without  quibbling, 
the  union  of  Valere  with  Mariane,  to  renounce  the  unjust 
power  which  would  enrich  you  with  .what  belongs  to 
another;  and  .    .   . 

Scene  IV. — Elmire,  Damis,  Tartuffe. 

Dam.  (  Co7ning  out  of  the  closet  in  which  he  was  hidden). 
No,  Madam,  no ;  this  shall  be  made  public.  I  was  in  there 
when  I  overheard  it  all ;  and  Providence  seems  to  have 
conducted  me  thither  to  abash  the  pride  of  a  wretch  who 
wrongs  me ;  to  point  me  out  a  way  to  take  vengeance  on 
his  hypocrisy  and  insolence;  to  undeceive  my  father,  and 
to  show  him  plainly  the  heart  of  a  villain  who  talks  to  you 
of  love. 

Elm.  No,  Damis;  it  suffices  that  he  reforms,  and 
endeavours  to  deserve  my  indulgence.  Since  I  have 
promised  him,  do  not  make  me  break  my  word.  I  have 
no  wish  to  provoke  a  scandal ;  a  woman  laughs  at  such 
follies,  and  never  troubles  her  husband's  ears  with  them. 

Dam.  You  have  your  reasons  for  acting  in  that  way,  and 
I  also  have  mine  for  behaving  differently.  It  is  a  farce  to 
wish  to  spare  him  ;  and  the  insolent  pride  of  his  bigotry 
has  already  triumphed  too  much  over  mv  just  anger,  and 
caused  too  much  disorder  amongst  us.  The  scoundrel  has 
governed  ray  father  too  long,  and  plotted  against  my  affec- 
tions as  well  as  Valere' s.  My  father  must  be  undeceived 
about  this  perfidious  wretch ;  and  Heaven  offers  me  an  easy 
means.  I  am  indebted  to  it  for  this  opportunity,  and  it  is 
too  favourable  to  be  neglected.  I  should  deserve  to  have 
it  snatched  away  from  me,  did  I  not  make  use  of  it,  now 
that  I  have  it  in  hand. 

Elm.   Damis  .    .    . 

Dam.  No,  by  your  leave,  I  will  use  my  own  judgment. 
I  am  highly  delighted :  and  all  you  can  say  will  be  in  vain 


428  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  [act  m, 

to  make  me  forego  the  pleasure  of  revenge.     I  shall  settle 
this  affair  without  delay ;  and  here  is  just  the  opportunity. 

Scene  V. — Orgon,  Elmire,  Damis,  Tartuffe. 

Dam.  We  will  enliven  your  arrival,  father,  with  an  alto- 
gether fresh  incident,  that  will  surprise  you  much.  You  are 
well  repaid  for  all  your  caresses,  and  this  gentleman  rewards 
your  tenderness  handsomely.  His  great  zeal  for  you  has 
just  shown  itself;  he  aims  at  nothing  less  than  at  dis- 
honouring you;  and  I  have  just  surprised  him  making  to 
your  wife  an  insulting  avowal  of  a  guilty  passion.  Her 
sweet  disposition,  and  her  too  discreet  feelings  would  by 
all  means  have  kept  the  secret  from  you;  but  I  cannot 
encourage  such  insolence,  and  think  that  to  have  been  silent 
about  it  would  have  been  to  do  you  an  injury. 

Elm.  Yes,  I  am  of  opinion  that  we  ought  never  to 
trouble  a  husband's  peace  with  all  those  silly  stories;  that 
our  honour  does  not  depend  upon  that;  and  that  it  is 
enough  for  us  to  be  able  to  defend  ourselves.  These  are 
my  sentiments;  and  you  would  have  said  nothing,  Damis, 
if  I  had  had  any  influence  with  you. 

Scene  VI. — Orgon,  Damis,  Tartuffe. 

Org.  What  have  I  heard  !  Oh  Heavens  !  is  it  credi- 
•ble? 

Tar.  Yes,  brother,  I  am  a  wicked,  guilty,  wretched 
sinner,  full  of  iniquity,  the  greatest  villain  that  ever  ex- 
isted. Each  moment  of  my  life  is  replete  with  pollutions ; 
it  is  but  a  mass  of  crime  and  corruption  ;  and  I  see  that 
Heaven,  to  chastise  me,  intends  to  mortify  me  on  this  oc- 
casion. Whatever  great  crime  may  be  laid  to  my  charge, 
I  have  neither  the  wish  nor  the  pride  to  deny  it.  Believe 
what  you  are  told,  arm  your  anger,  and  drive  me  like  a 
criminal  from  your  house.  Whatever  shame  you  may  heap 
upon  me,  I  deserve  still  more. 

Org.  {To  his  Son).  What,  wretch  !  dare  you,  by  this 
falsehood,  tarnish  the  purity  of  his  virtue? 

Dam.  What,  -shall  the  pretended  gentleness  of  this  hypo- 
crite make  you  belie  .    .    . 

Org.   Peace,  cursed  plague  ! 

Tar.  Ah !  let  him  speak  j  you  accuse  him  wrongly,  and 


tartuffe;  or,  t^m.  BrrocRrrR. 

I'-h  befter  believe  in  hia  story      V 
le  to  me  after  heaT-iug 

-vare  of  >.v'-  .-•  I  am  cap; 

y,for  all  tl>at 

\'i  ■      n.-.      vr- 


i  am  ver' 


\-Xii,: 

on  ;  c 


•7  Ais  knect  ^ 
!  in  jest? 


1     i  Tartuffe  with  Mowt^fKi''>;  '.-^  Sc*mji»»  faM 
i»£.  latroductory  Notice  to  thw  pUjr.  ^»fpt  565. 


Xi 


SCENE  VII.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  431 

.  .   .    My  heart  is  so  oppressed  that  I  cannot  speak,  and  I 
believe  it  will  be  my  death. 

Org.  {Running,  all  in  tears,  towards  the  door,  by  which 
his  son  has  disappeared).  Scoundrel !  I  am  sorry  my 
hand  has  spared  you,  and  not  knocked  you  down  on  the 
spot.  {To  Tartuffe).  Compose  yourself,  brother,  and 
do  not  grieve. 

Tar.  Let  us  put  an  end  to  these  sad  disputes.  I  per- 
ceive what  troubles  I  cause  in  this  house,  and  think  it 
necessary,  brother,  to  leave  it. 

Org.  What !  you  are  jesting  surely? 

Tar.  They  hate  me,  and  I  find  that  they  are  trying  to 
make  you  suspect  my  integrity. 

Org.  What  does  it  matter  ?  Do  you  think  that,  in  my 
heart,  I  listen  to  them? 

Tar.  They  will  not  fail  to  continue,  you  may  be  sure  ; 
and  these  self-same  stories  which  you  now  reject,  may, 
perhaps,  be  listened  to  at  another  time. 

Org.  No,  brother,  never. 

Tar.  Ah,  brother !  a  wife  may  easily  impose  upon  a 
husband.  * 

Org.  No,  no. 

Tar.  Allow  me,  by  removing  hence  promptly,  to  de- 
prive them  of  all  subject  of  attack 

Org.  No,  you  shall  remain ;  my  life  depends  upon  it. 

Tar.  Well !  I  must  then  mortify  myself.  If,  however, 
you  would  ... 

Org.  Ah! 

Tar.  Be  it  so :  let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  But  I 
know  how  to  manage  in  this.  Honour  is  a  tender  thing, 
and  friendship  enjoins  me  to  prevent  reports  and  causes 
for  suspicion.  I  shall  shun  your  wife,  and  you  shall  not 
see  me  .  .  . 

Org.  No,  in  spite  of  all,  you  shall  frequently  be  with 
her.  To  annoy  the  world  is  my  greatest  delight ;  and  I 
wish  you  to  be  seen  with  her  at  all  limes.  Nor  is  this  all : 
the  better  to  defy  them  all,  I  will  have  no  other  heir  but 
you,  and  I  am  going  forthwith  to  execute  a  formal  deed 
of  gift  of  all  my  property  to  you.  A  faithful  and  honest 
friend,  whom  I  take  for  son-in-law,  is  dearer  to  me  than 
son,  wife,  and  parents.  Will  you  not  accept  what  I  propose  ? 


432  TARTUtFE;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  nr. 

Tar.  The  will  of  Heaven  be  done  in  all  things. 
Org.  Poor  fellow.     Q^aick !  let  us  get  the  draft  drawn 
up :  and  then  let  envy  itself  burst  with  spite  1 


ACT  IV. 
Scene  I. — Cleante,  Tartuffe. 

Cle.  Yes,  everyone  talks  about  it,  and  you  may  believe 
me.  The  stir  which  this  rumour  makes  is  not  at  all  to 
your  credit ;  and  I  have  just  met  you,  Sir,  opportunely, 
to  tell  you  my  opinion  in  two  words.  I  will  not  sift  these 
reports  to  the  bottom ;  I  refrain,  and  take  the  thing  at 
its  worst.  Let  us  suppose  that  Damis  has  not  acted  well, 
and  that  you  have  been  wrongly  accused  ;  would  it  not  be 
like  a  Christian  to  pardon  the  offence,  and  to  smother  all 
desire  of  vengeance  in  your  heart  ?  And  ought  you,  on 
account  of  a  dispute  with  you,  to  allow  a  son  to  be  driven 
from  his  father's  home?  I  tell  you  once  more,  and  can- 
didly, that  great  and  small  are  scandalized  at  it ;  and,  if 
you  will  take  my  advice,  you  will  try  to  make  peace,  and 
not  push  matters  to  extremes.  Make  a  sacrifice  to  God  of 
your  resentment,  and  restore  a  son  to  his  father's  favour. 

Tar.  Alas !  for  my  own  part,  I  would  do  so  with  all 
my  heart.  I  do  not  bear  him.  Sir,  the  slightest  ill-will ;  I 
forgive  him  everything;  I  blame  him  for  nothing;  and 
would  serve  him  to  the  best  of  my  power.  But  Heaven's 
interest  is  opposed  to  it ;  and,  if  he  comes  back,  I  must 
leave  the  house.  After  his  unparalleled  behaviour,  com- 
munication with  him  would  give  rise  to  scandal :  Heaven 
knows  what  all  the  world  would  immediately  think  of  it ! 
They  would  impute  it  to  sheer  policy  on  my  part ;  and 
they  would  say  everywhere,  that  knowing  myself  to  be 
guilty,  I  pretend  a  charitable  zeal  for  my  accuser;  that  I 
am  afraid,  and  wish  to  conciliate  him,  in  order  to  bribe 
him,  in  an  underhand  manner,  into  silence. 

Cle.  You  try  to  put  forward  pretended  excuses,  and  all 
your  reasons,  Sir,  are  too  far-fetched.  Why  do  you  charge 
yourself  with  Heaven's  interests?  Has  it  any  need  of  us 
to  punish  the  guilty?    Leave  to  it  the    are  of  its  own 


SCBNE  1  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  433 

vengeance;  think  only  of  the  pardon  which  it  enjoins  for 
offences,  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  about  men's  judg- 
ments, when  you  are  following  the  sovereign  edicts  of 
Heaven.  What !  shall  the  trivial  regard  for  what  men 
may  think  prevent  the  glory  of  a  good  action?  No,  no; 
let  us  always  do  what  Heaven  preseribes,  and  not  trouble 
our  heads  with  other  cares. 

Tar.  I  have  already  told  you  that  from  my  heart  I  for- 
give him  ;  and  that.  Sir,  is  doing  what  Heaven  commands 
us  to  do :  but  after  the  scandal  and  the  insult  of  to-day, 
Heaven  does  not  require  me  to  live  with  him. 

Cle.  And  does  it  require  you,  Sir,  to  lend  your  ear  to 
what  a  mere  whim  dictates  to  his  father,  and  to  accept  the 
gift  of  a  property  to  which  in  justice  you  have  no  claim 
whatever? 

Tar.  Those  who  know  me  will  not  think  that  this  pro- 
ceeds from  self-interest.  All  the  world's  goods  have  but 
few  charms  for  me ;  I  am  not  dazzled  by  their  deceptive 
glare :  and  should  I  determine  to  accept  from  his  father 
that  donation  which  he  wishes  to  make  to  me,  it  is  only, 
in  truth,  because  I  fear  that  all  that  property  might  fall 
into  wicked  hands;  lest  it  might  be  divided  amongst  those 
who  would  make  a  bad  use  of  it  in  this  world,  and  would 
not  employ  it,  as  I  intend,  for  the  glory  of  Heaven  and 
the  well-being  of  my  fellow-men. 

Cle.  Oh,  Sir,  you  need  not  entertain  those  delicate 
scruples,  which  may  give  cause  for  the  rightful  heir  to 
complain.  Allow  him  at  his  peril  to  enjoy  his  own,  with- 
out troubling  yourself  in  any  way ;  and  consider  that  it  is 
better  even  that  he  should  make  a  bad  use  of  it,  than  that 
you  should  be  accused  of  defrauding  him  of  it.  My  only 
wonder  is,  that  you  could  have  received  such  a  proposal 
unblushingly.  For  after  all,  has  true  piety  any  maxim 
showing  how  a  legitimate  heir  may  be  stripped  of  his  pro- 
perty ?  And  if  Heaven  has  put  into  your  head  an  invin- 
cible obstacle  to  your  living  with  Damis,  would  it  not  be 
better  that  as  a  prudent  man  you  should  make  a  civil  re- 
treat from  this,  than  to  allow  that,  contrary  to  all  reason, 
the  son  should  be  turned  out  of  the  house  for  you.  Believe 
me,  Sir,  this  would  be  giving:  a  proof  of  your  probity  .    . 

Tar.   Sir,  it  is  half  past  three :   certain  religious  duties 

VOL.  H.  2C 


434  TARTUFFE;   or,   the  hypocrite.  [activ. 

call  me  upstairs,  and  you  will  excuse  my  leaving  you  so 
soon. 

Cle.  {Alone).     Ah  ! 

Scene  II. — Elmire,  Mariane,  Cleante,  Dorine. 

Dor.  (^To  Cleante).  For  Heaven's  sake,  Sir,  bestir  your- 
self with  us  for  her  :  she  is  in  mortal  grief ;  and  the  mar- 
riage contract  which  her  father  has  resolved  upon  being 
signed  this  evening,  drives  her  every  moment  to  despair. 
Here  he  comes  !  Pray,  let  us  unite  our  efforts,  and  try, 
by  force  or  art,  to  shake  this  unfortunate  design  that 
causes  us  all  this  trouble. 

Scene  III. — Orgon,  Elmire,  Mariane,  Cleante, 
Dorine. 

Org.  Ah  !  I  am  glad  to  see  you  all  assembled.  (^To 
Mariane).  There  is  something  in  this  document  to  please 
you,  and  you  know  already  what  it  means. 

Mar.  \At  Organ's  feet).  Father,  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  which  knows  my  grief,  and  by  all  that  can  move 
your  heart,  relax  somewhat  of  your  paternal  rights,  and 
absolve  me  from  obedience  in  this  case.  Do  not  com- 
pel me,  by  this  harsh  command,  to  reproach  Heaven 
with  my  duty  to  you ;  and  alas  !  do  not  make  wretched 
the  life  which  you  have  given  me,  father.  If,  contrary  to 
the  sweet  expectations  which  I  have  formed,  you  forbid 
me  to  belong  to  him  whom  I  have  dared  to  love,  kindly 
save  me  at  least,  I  implore  you  on  my  knees,  from  the 
torment  of  belonging  to  one  whom  I  abhor  ;  and  do  not 
drive  me  to  despair  by  exerting  your  full  power  over  me. 

Org.  (^Somewhat  moved).  Firm,  my  heart ;  none  of 
this  human  weakness  ! 

Mar.  Your  tenderness  for  him  causes  me  no  grief;  in- 
dulge it  to  its  'fullest  extent,  give  him  your  wealth,  and  if 
that  be  not  enough,  add  mine  to  it ;  I  consent  to  it  with 
all  my  heart,  and  T  leave  you  to  disnose  of  it.  But,  at 
least,  stop  short  of  my  own  self;  and  allow  me  to  end.  in 
the  austerities  of  a  convent,  the  sad  days  which  Heaven 
has  allotted  to  me. 

Org.  Ah,  that  is  it !  When  a  father  crosses  a  girl's 
love-sick  inclination,  she  wishes  to  become  a  nun.     Get 


SCENE  III.]  TARTUFFE ;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE.  435 

up.  The  more  repugnance  you  feel  in  accepting  him,  the 
greater  will  be  your  merit.  Mortify  your  senses  by  this 
marriage,  and  do  not  trouble  me  any  longer. 

Dor.  But  what  .    . 

Org.  Hold  your  tongue.  Meddle  only  with  what  con- 
cerns you.     I  flatly  forbid  you  to  say  another  word. 

Cle.  If  you  will  permit  me  to  answer  you,  and  ad- 
vise .    .    . 

Org.  Your  advice  is  the  best  in  the  world,  brother;  it 
is  well  argued^  and  I  set  great  store  by  it :  but  you  must 
allow  me  not  to  avail  myself  of  it. 

Elm.  (7};  her  husband^.  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to  say,  after 
all  I  have  seen ;  and  I  quite  admire  your  blindness.  You 
must  be  mightily  bewitched  and  prepossessed  in  his  favour, 
to  deny  to  us  the  incidents  of  this  day. 

Org.  I  am  your  servant,  and  judge  by  appearances.  I 
know  your  indulgence  for  my  rascal  of  a  son,  and  you  were 
afraid  of  disowning  the  trick  which  he  wished  to  play  on 
the  poor  fellow.  But,  after  all,  you  took  it  too  quietly  to 
be  believed ;  and  you  ought  to  have  appeared  somewhat 
more  upset. 

Elm.  Is  our  honour  to  bridle  up  so  strongly  at  the 
simple  avowal  of  an  amorous  transport,  and  can  there  be 
no  reply  to  aught  that  touches  it,  without  fury  in  our  eyes 
and  invectives  in  our  mouth?  As  for  me,  I  simply  laugh 
at  such  talk;  and  the  noise  made  about  it  by  no  means 
pleases  me.  I  love  to  show  my  discreetness  quietly,  and 
am  not  at  all  like  those  savage  prudes,  whose  honour  is 
armed  with  claws  and  teeth,  and  who  at  the  least  word 
would  scratch  people's  faces.  Heaven  preserve  me  from 
such  good  behaviour!  I  prefer  a  virtue  that  is  not  dia- 
bolical, and  believe  that  a  discreet  and  cold  denial  is  no 
less  effective  in  repelling  a  lover. 

Org.  In  short,  I  know  the  whole  affair,  dnd  will  not  be 
imposed  upon. 

Elm.  Once  more,  I  wonder  at  your  strange  weakness; 
but  what  would  your  unbelief  answer  if  I  were  to  show 
you  that  you  had  been  told  the  truth. 

Org.  Show! 

Elm.  Aye.  .  .     -  -    ' 

Org.  Stuff. 


436  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,   THE   HYPOCRITE.  [act  iv. 

Elm.  But  if  I  found  the  means  to  show  you  plainly  ?  .  .  , 

Org.  Idle  stories. 

Elm.  What  a  strange  man !  Answer  me,  at  least.  I  am 
not  speaking  of  believing  us;  but  suppose  that  we  found 
a  place  where  you  could  plainly  see  and  hear  everything, 
what  would  you  say  then  of  your  good  man? 

Org.  In  that  case,  I  should  say  that  ...  I  should  say 
nothing,  for  the  thing  cannot  be. 

Elm.  Your  delusion  has  lasted  too  long,  and  I  have 
been  too  much  taxed  with  imposture.  I  must,  for  my 
gratification,  without  going  any  farther,  make  you  a  witness 
of  all  that  I  have  told  you. 

Org.  Be  it  so.  I  take  you  at  your  word.  We  shall  see 
your  dexterity,  and  how  you  will  make  good  this  promise. 

Elm.  (  To  Dorine).  Bid  him  come  to  me. 

Dor.  (7<?  Ehnire).  He  is  crafty,  and  it  will  be  difficult, 
perhaps,  to  catch  him. 

Elm.  (^To  Dorine).  No;  people  are  easily  duped  by 
those  whom  they  love,  and  conceit  is  apt  to  deceive  itself. 
Bid  him  come  down.  {^To  Cleante  and  Mariane).  And  do 
you  retire. 

Scene   IV. — Elmire,  Orgon. 

Elm.  Come,  and  get  under  this  table. 

Org.  Why  so? 

Elm.  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  conceal  yourself 
well. 

Org.  But  why  under  this  table  ? 

Elm.  Good  Heavens !  do  as  you  are  told;  I  have  thought 
about  my  plan,  and  you  shall  judge.  Get  under  there,  I 
tell  you,  and,  when  you  are  there,  take  care  not  to  be  seen 
or  heard. 

Org.  I  confess  that  my  complaisance  is  great ;  but  I 
must  needs  see  the  end  of  your  enterprise. 

Elm.  You  will  have  nothing,  I  believe,  to  reply  to  me. 
{^To  Orgon  under  the  table).  Mind  !  I  am  going  to  meddle 
with  a  strange  matter,  do  not  be  shocked  in  any  way.  I 
must  be  permitted  to  say  what  I  like  ;  and  it  is  to  con- 
vince you,  as  I  have  promised.  Since  I  am  compelled  to 
it,  I  am  going  to  make  this  hypocrite  drop  his  mask  by 
addressing  soft  speeches  to  him,  flatter  the  shameful  de- 


scKNKv.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  437 

sires  of  his  passion,  and  give  him  full  scope  for  his  au- 
dacity. As  it  is  for  your  sake  alone,  and  the  better  to 
confound  him,  that  I  pretend  to  yield  to  his  wishes,  I 
shall  cease  as  soon  as  you  show  yourself,  and  things  need 
not  go  farther  than  you  wish.  It  is  for  you  to  stop  his 
mad  passion,  when  you  think  matters  are  carried  far 
enough,  to  spare  your  wife,  and  not  to  expose  me  any 
more  than  is  necessary  to  disabuse  you.  This  is  your 
business,  it  remains  entirely  with  you,  and  ^*  .  .  .  But 
he  comes.  Keep  close,  and  be  careful  not  to  show  your- 
self. 

Scene  V. — Tartuffe,  Elmire,  Orgon  {under  the  table). 

Tar.  I  have  been  told  that  you  wished  to  speak  to  me 
here. 

Elm.  Yes.  Some  secrets  will  be  revealed  to  you.  But 
close  this  door  before  they  are  told  to  you,  and  look  about 
everywhere,  for  fear  of  a  surprise.  (^Tartuffe  closes  the 
door,  and  comes  back).  We  assuredly  do  not  want  here  a 
scene  like  the  one  we  just  passed  through  :  I  never  was  so 
startled  in  my  life.  Damis  put  me  in  a  terrible  fright  for 
you ;  and  you  saw,  indeed,  that  I  did  my  utmost  to  frus- 
trate his  intentions  and  calm  his  excitement.  My  con- 
fusion, it  is  true,  was  so  great,  that  I  had  not  a  thought 
of  contradicting  him  :  but,  thanks  to  Heaven,  everything 
has  turned  out  the  better  for  that,  and  is  upon  a  much 
surer  footing.  The  esteem  in  which  you  are  held  has 
allayed  the  storm,  and  my  husband  will  not  take  any  um- 
brage at  you.  The  better  to  brave  people's  ill-natured 
comments,  he  wishes  us  to  be  together  at  all  times ;  and 
it  is  through  this  that,  without  fear  of  incurring  blame,  I 
can  be  closetted  here  alone  with  you  ;  and  this  justifies 
me  in  opening  to  you  my  heart,  a  little  too  ready  perhaps, 
to  listen  to  your  passion. 

Tar.  This   language   is   somewhat   difficult   to   under- 


^  These  words  of  Elmire  are,  in  reality,  addressed  to  the  audience,  to 
remind  them  of  the  necessity  of  unmasking  the  hypocrite  ;  they  contain 
also  an  excuse  for  her  farther  behaviour;  for,  in  spite  of  her  modesty,  she 
is  compelled  to  give  convincing  proof  to  her  husband  that  Tartuffe  is  a 
scoundrel. 


438  TARTUFFE;    or,   the   hypocrite.  [act  IV. 

stand,  Madam  ;  and  you  just  now  spoke  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent strain. 

Elm.  Ah  !  how  little  you  know  the  heart  of  a  woman, 
if  such  a  refusal  makes  you  angry !  and  how  little  you  un- 
derstand what  it  means  to  convey,  when  it  defends  itself 
so  feebly  !  In  those  moments,  our  modesty  always  com- 
bats the  tender  sentiments  with  which  we  may  be  in- 
spired.^ Whatever  reason  we  may  find  for  the  passion  that 
subdues  us,  we  always  feel  some  shame  in  owning  it.  We 
deny  it  at  first :  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  you  suffi- 
ciently to  understand  that  our  heart  surrenders  ;  that,  for 
honour's  sake,  words  oppose  our  wishes,  and  that  such 
refusals  promise  everything.  This  is,  no  doubt,  making  a 
somewhat  plain  confession  to  you,  and  showing  little  re- 
gard for  our  modesty.  But,  since  these  words  have  at  last 
escaped  me,  would  I  have  been  so  anxious  to  restrain 
Damis,  would  I,  pray,  have  so  complacently  listened,  for 
such  a  long  time,  to  the  offer  of  your  heart,  would  I  have 
taken  the  matter  as  I  have  done,  if  the  offer  of  that  heart 
had  had  nothing  in  it  to  please  me  ?  And,  when  I  myself 
would  have  compelled  you  to  refuse  the  match  that  had 
just  been  proposed,  what  ought  this  entreaty  to  have  given 
you  to  understand,  but  the  interest  I  was  disposed  to  take 
in  you,  and  the  vexation  it  would  have  caused  me,  that 
this  marriage  would  have  at  least  divided  a  heart  that  I 
wished  all  to  myself?®" 


69  In  the  original  French,  there  is  a  delicacy  which  can  hardly  be  ren- 
dered into  English.  Elmire  almost  always  avoids  the  use  of  a  per- 
sonal pronoun,  but  employs  the  indefinite  on,  during  the  whole  of  this 
scene.  This  may  be  grammatically  wrong,  but  is,  dramatically,  emi- 
nently successful.  We  give,  as  an  example,  the  following  four  lines  in 
the  original : 

"  Quelque  raison  qu'on  trouve  h.  I'amour  qui  nous  dompte, 
On  trouve  k  I'avouer  toujours  un  peu  de  honte. 
On  s'en  defend  d'abord :  mais  de  I'air  qu'on  s'y  prend 
On  fait  connaitre  assez  que  notre  coeur  se  rend.'' 

*<•  Here,  again,  there  is  a  delicacy  in  the  original  French  which  cannot 
be  rendered  into  English.  Elmire  is  full  of  hesitation  in  what  she  is  going 
to  sav,  and  she  expresses  this  even  in  her  grammar,  which,  although  far 
from  clear,  beautifully  reflects  the  trouble  of  her  mind.  We  give  the  four 
last  lines  of  her  speech,  crowded  with  que.  I  agree  with  Sainte-Beuve  that 
Molifere  placed  them  there  piu-posely. 


S.CSNEV.]       TARTUFFE;  or,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  439 

Tar.  It  is  very  sweet,  no  doubt,  Madam,  to  hear  these 
words  from  the  lips  we  love ;  their  honey  plentifully  dif- 
fuses a  suavity  throughout  my  senses,  such  as  they  never 
yet  tasted.  The  happiness  of  pleasing  you  is  my  highest 
study,  and  my  heart  reposes  all  its  bliss  in  your  affection  ; 
but,  by  your  leave,  this  heart  presumes  still  to  have  some 
doubt  in  its  own  felicity.  I  may  look  upon  these  words  as 
a  decent  stratagem  to  compel  me  to  break  off  the  match 
that  is  on  the  point  of  being  concluded;  and,  if  I  must 
needs  speak  candidly  to  you,  I  shall  not  trust  to  such  ten- 
der words,  until  some  of  those  favours,  for  which  I  sigh, 
have  assured  me  of  all  which  they  intend  to  express,  and 
fixed  in  my  heart  a  firm  belief  of  the  charming  kindness 
which  you  intend  for  me. 

Elm.  {After  having  coughed  to  warn  her  husband). 
What !  would  you  proceed  so  fast,  and  exhaust  the  tender- 
ness of  one's  heart  at  once  ?  One  takes  the  greatest  pains 
to  make  you  the  sweetest  declarations  ;  meanwhile  is  not 
that  enough  for  you?  and  will  nothing  content  you,  but 
pushing  things  to  the  utmost  extremity  ? 

Tar.  The  less  a  blessing  is  deserved,  the  less  one  pre- 
sumes to  expect  it.  Our  love  dares  hardly  rely  upon  words. 
A  lot  full  of  happiness  is  difficult  to  realize,  and  we  wish 
to  enjoy  it  before  believing  in  it.  As  for  me,  who  think 
myself  so  little  deserving  of  your  favours,  I  doubt  the  suc- 
cess of  my  boldness ;  and  shall  believe  nothing,  Madam, 
until  you  have  convinced  my  passion  by  real  proofs. 

Elm.  Good  Heavens  !  how  very  tyrannically  your  love 
acts !  And  into  what  a  strange  confusion  it  throws  me  ! 
What  a  fierce  sway  it  exercises  over  our  hearts  !  and  how 
violently  it  clamours  for  what  it  desires  !  What !  can  I 
find  no  shelter  from  your  pursuit  ?  and  will  you  scarcely 
give  me  time  to  breathe  ?  Is  it  decent  to  be  so  very  exact- 
ing, and  to  insist  upon  your  demands  being  satisfied  imme- 
diately; and  thus,  by  your  pressing  efforts,  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  weakness  which  you  see  one  has  for  you? 


"  Qu'est-ce  que  cette  instance  a  du  vous  faire  entendre, 
Que  I'interet  qu'en  vous  on  s'avise  de  prendre, 
Et  I'ennui  quon  aurait  que  ce  noeud  qu'on  resout 
Vint  partager  du  moins  un  coeur  que  Ton  veut  tout  ?  " 


440  TARTUFFE  ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  nr. 

Tar.  But  if  you  look  upon  my  addresses  with  a  favour- 
able eye,  why  refuse  me  convincing  proofs  ? 

Elm.  But  how  can  I  comply  with  what  you  wish,  with- 
out offending  that  Heaven  of  which  you  are  always  speak- 
ing ? 

Tar.  If  it  be  nothing  but  Heaven  that  opposes  itself  to 
my  wishes,  it  is  a  trifle  for  me  to  remove  such  an  obstacle ; 
and  that  need  be  no  restraint  upon  your  love. 

Elm.  But  they  frighten  us  so  much  with  the  judgments 
of  Heaven! 

Tar.  I  can  dispel  these  ridiculous  fears  for  you.  Madam, 
and  I  possess  the  art  of  allaying  scruples.  Heaven,  it  is 
true,  forbids  certain  gratifications,  but  there  are  ways  and 
means  of  compounding  such  matters."  According  to  our 
different  wants,  there  is  a  science  which  loosens  that 
which  binds  our  conscience,  and  which  rectifies  the  evil 
of  the  act  with  the  purity  of  our  intentions.®'*  We  shall  be 
able  to  initiate  you  into  these  secrets.  Madam ;  you  have 
only  to  be  led  by  me.  Satisfy  my  desires,  and  have  no 
fear;  I  shall  be  answerable  for  everything,  and  shall  take 
the  sin  upon  myself.  {Elniire  coughs  louder).  You  cough 
very  much,  Madam  ? 

Elm.  Yes,  I  am  much  tormented. 

Tar.  Would  you  like  a  piece  of  this  liquorice? 

Elm.  It  is  an  obstinate  cold,  no  doubt ;  and  I  know  that 
all  the  liquorice  in  the  world  will  do  it  no  good. 

Tar.  That,  certainly,  is  very  sad 

Elm.  Yes,  more  than  I  can  say. 

Tar.  In  short,  your  scruples.  Madam,  are  easily  over- 
come. You  may  be  sure  of  the  secret  being  kept,  and 
there  is  no  harm  done  unless  the  thing  is  bruited  about. 
The  scandal  which  it  causes  constitutes  the  offence,  and 
sinning  in  secret  is  no  sinning  at  all. 

•1  In  the  original  edition  there  is  a  note  saying,  ''  It  is  a  scoundrel  who 
speaks.'' 

fi*  Pascal  uses  nearly  the  same  words  in  the  seventh  Provinciale : 
"When  we  cannot  prevent  the  action,  we  purify  at  least  the  intention; 
and  thus  we  correct  vice  by  means  of  the  purity  of  the  end."  The  Jan- 
senists  considered  for  some  time  the  Tartuffe  as  a  sequel  to  Pascal's 
Letters.  Machiavelli,  in  the  Mandragore,  makes  Friar  Timotheo  use  the 
same  ailments  in  order  to  persuade  a  married  woman  to  procure  an  heir 
to  her  husband. 


SCENE  VI.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  .441 

Elm.  {After  having  coughed  once  more').  In  short,  I  see 
that  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  yield  ;  that  I  must 
consent  to  grant  you  everything ;  and  that  with  less  than 
that,  I  ought  not  to  pretend  to  satisfy  you,  or  to  be 
believed  (?).  It  is  no  doubt  very  hard  to  go  to  that  length, 
and  it  is  greatly  in  spite  of  myself  that  I  venture  thus  far; 
but,  since  people  persist  in  driving  me  to  this;  since  they 
will  not  credit  aught  I  may  say,  and  wish  for  more  con- 
vincing proofs,  I  can  but  resolve  to  act  thus,  and  satisfy 
them,®^  If  this  gratification  offends,  so  much  the  worse 
for  those  who  force  me  to  it :  the  fault  ought  surely  not  to 
be  mine. 

Tar.  Yes,  Madam,  I  take  it  upon  myself;  and  the  thing 
in  itself  .    .    . 

Elm,  Open  this  door  a  little.,  and,  see,  pray,  if  my  hus- 
band be  not  in  that  gallery. 

Tar.  What  need  is  there  to  take  so  much  thought  about 
him  ?  Between  ourselves,  he  is  easily  led  by  the  nose.  He 
is  likely  to  glory  in  all  our  interviews,  and  I  have  brought 
him  so  far  that  he  will  see  everything,  and  without  be- 
lieving anything. 

Elm.  It  matters  not.  Go,  pray,  for  a  moment  and  look 
carefully  everywhere  outside. 

Scene  VI. — Orgon,  Elmire. 

Org.  {Coming  from  under  the  table").  This  is,  I  admit 
to  you,  an  abominable  wretch !  I  cannot  recover  myself, 
and  all  this  perfectly  stuns  me. 

Elm.  What,  you  come  out  so  soon  !  You  are  surely 
jesting.  Get  under  the  table-cloth  again ;  it  is  not  time 
yet.  Stay  to  the  end,  to  be  quite  sure  of  the  thing,  and 
do  not  trust  at  all  to  mere  conjectures. 

Org.   No,  nothing  more  wicked  ever  came  out  of  hell. 

**  See  page  438,  note  59,  Elmire,  of  course,  uses  on  here  to  designate 
Orgon,  though  Tartuffe  takes  it  for  himself.  If  she  had  not  used  this  in- 
definite pronoun  from  the  very  beginning,  the  hypocrite's  suspicions  might 
have  been  roused.     We  give  the  four  last  lines  in  the  original : 

"  Mais,  puisque  I'on  s'obstine  \  m'y  vouloir  reduire, 
Puisqu  on  ne  veut  point  croire  k  tout  ce  qu'on  pent  dire, 
Et  qu'on  veut  des  temoins  qui  soient  plus  convaincants, 
II  faut  bien  s'y  resoudre,  et  contenter  les  gens." 


442    .  TARTUFFE;   or,   the   hypocrite.  [activ; 

Elm.  Good  Heavens !  you  ought  not  to  believe  things 
so  lightly.  Be  fully  convinced  before  you  give  in  ;  and 
do  not  hurry  for  fear  of  being  mistaken."  ( Elmire  pushes 
Organ  behind  her). 

Scene  VII. — Tartuffe,  Elmire,  Orgon. 

Tar.  {^Without  seeing  Orgon).  Everything  conspires, 
Madam,  to  my  satisfaction.  I  have  surveyed  the  whole 
apartment;  there  is  no  one  there;  and  my  delighted 
soul .  .  .  {Al  the  moment  that  Tartuffe  advances  with 
open  arms  to  embrace  Elmire,  she  draws  back,  and  Tar- 
tuffe perceives  Orgon). 

Org.  {Stopping  Tartuffe).  Gently !  you  are  too  eager 
in  your  amorous  transports,  and  you  ought  not  to  be  so 
impetuous.  Ha !  ha  !  good  man,  you  wished  to  victimize 
me !  How  you  are  led  away  by  temptations  !  You  would 
marry  my  daughter,  and  covet  my  wife  !  I  have  been  a 
long  while  in  doubt  whether  you  were  in  earnest,  and  I 
always  expected  you  would  change  your  tone ;  but  this  is 
pushing  the  proof  far  enough :  I  am  satisfied,  and  wish 
for  no  more. 

Elm.  {To  Tartuffe).  It  is  much  against  my  inclina- 
tions that  I  have  done  this :  but  I  have  been  driven  to 
the  necessity  of  treating  you  thus. 

Tar,  ( To  Orgon).    What !  do  you  believe  .    .    . 

Org.  Come,  pray,  no  more.  Decamp,  and  without 
ceremony. 

Tar.  My  design®*  .    .    . 

Org.  These  speeches  are  no  longer  of  any  use ;  you  must 
get  out  of  this  house,  and  forthwith. 

Tar.  It  is  for  you  to  get  out,  you  who  assume  the 
mastership:  the  house  belongs  to  me,  I  will  make  you 
know  it,  and  show  you  plainly  enough  that  it  is  useless 
to  resort  to  these  cowardly  tricks  to  pick  a  quarrel  with 

**  Elmire  does  not  joke  with  Orgon,  but  is  really  anpry  that  she  has 
been  obliged  to  do  violence  to  her  innate  modesty,  in  order  to  convince 
him. 

^  Tartuffe,  no  doubt,  was  going  to  say,  "  My  design  was  to  put  to  the 
proof  the  virtue  of  your  wife."  The  often-mentioned  Lettre  sitr  Vimpos- 
teur  says  that  Tartuffe  here  calls  Orgon  his  brother,  and  begins  to  justify 
himself     Molifere  most  probably  modified  this  passage. 


SCENE  vm.]  TARTUFFE;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  443 

me;  that  one  cannot  safely.,  as  one  thinks,  insult  me; 
that  I  have  the  means  of  confounding  and  of  punishing 
imposture,  of  avenging  offended  Heaven,  and  of  making 
those  repent  who  talk  of  turning  me  out  hence. 

Scene  VIII. — Elmire,  Orgon. 

Elm.  What  language  is  this?  and  what  does  he  mean? 

Org.  I  am,  in  truth,  all  confusion,  and  this  is  no 
laughing  matter. 

Elm.  How  so? 

Org.  I  perceive  my  mistake  by  what  he  says ;  and  the 
deed  of  gift  troubles  my  mind. 

Elm.  The  deed  of  gift? 

Org.  Yes.  The  thing  is  done.  But  something  else 
disturbs  me  too. 

Elm.  And  what  ? 

Org.  You  shall  know  all.  But  first  let  us  go  and  see 
if  a  certain  box  is  still  upstairs. 


ACT  V. 

Scene  I. — Orgon,  CL]fcANTE. 

Cle.  Where  would  you  run  to  ? 

Org.  Indeed  !  how  can  I  tell  ? 

Cle.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  should  begin  by  consulting 
together  what  had  best  be  done  in  this  emergency. 

0kg.  This  box  troubles  me  sorely.  It  makes  me  de- 
spair more  than  all  the  rest. 

Cle.  This  box  then  contains  an  important  secret? 

Org.  It  is  a  deposit  that  Argas  himself,  the  friend  whom 
I  pity,  entrusted  secretly  to  my  own  hands.  He  selected 
me  for  this  in  his  flight ;  and  from  what  he  told  me,  it 
contains  documents  upon  which  his  life  and  fortune  de- 
pend. 

Cle.  Why  then  did  you  confide  it  into  other  hands  ? 

Org.  It  was  from  a  conscientious  motive.  I  straight- 
way confided  the  secret  to  the  wretch  ;  and  his  arguing 
persuaded  me  to  give  this  box  into  his  keeping,  so  that,  in 
case  of  any  inquiry,  I  might  be  able  to  deny  it  by  a  ready 


444  •   TARTUFFE;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE,  {act  V. 

subterfuge,  by  which  my  conscience  might  have  full  abso- 
lution for  swearing  against  the  truth.®® 

Cle.  This  is  critical,  at  least,  to  judge  from  appear- 
ances; and  the  deed  of  gift,  and  his  confidence,  have  been, 
to  tell  you  my  mind,  steps  too  inconsiderately  taken. 
You  may  be  driven  far  with  such  pledges;  and  since  the 
fellow  has  these  advantages  over  you,  it  is  a  great  impru- 
dence on  your  part  to  drive  him  to  extremities;  and  you 
ought  to  seek  some  gentler  method. 

Org.  What !  to  hide  such  a  double-dealing  heart,  so 
wicked  a  soul,  under  so  fair  an  appearance  of  touching 
fervour  !  And  I  who  received  him  in  my  house  a  beggar 
and  penniless.  ...  It  is  all  over ;  I  renounce  all  pious 
people.  Henceforth  I  shall  hold  them  in  utter  abhorrence, 
and  be  worse  to  them  than  the  very  devil. 

Cle.  Just  so !  you  exaggerate  again  !  You  never  preserve 
moderation  in  anything.  You  never  keep  within  reason's 
bounds ;  and  always  rush  from  one  extreme  to  another. 
You  see  your  mistake,  and  find  out  that  you  have  been 
imposed  upon  by  a  pretended  zeal.  But  is  there  any 
reason  why,  in  order  to  correct  yourself,  you  should  fall 
into  a  greater  error  still,  and  say  that  all  pious  people 
have  the  same  feelings  as  that  perfidious  rascal  ?  What  ! 
because  a  scoundrel  has  audaciously  deceived  you,  under 
the  pompous  show  of  outward  austerity,  you  will  needs 
have  it  that  every  one  is  like  him,  and  that  there  is  no 
really  pious  man  to  be  found  now-a-days?  Leave  those 
foolish  deductions  to  free-thinkers :  distinguish  between 
real  virtue  and  its  counterfeit ;  never  bestow  your  esteem 
too  hastily,  and  keep  in  this  the  necessary  middle  course. 
Beware,  if  possible,  of  honouring  imposture  ;  but  do  not 
attack  true  piety  also ;  and  if  you  must  fall  into  an  ex- 
treme, rather  offend  again  on  the  other  side. 

Scene  II. — Orgon,  Cleante,  Damis. 

Dam,  What !  father,  is  it  true  that  this  scoundrel  threat- 
ens you?  that  he  forgets  all  that  you  have  done  for  him, 

*6  Tartuffe  has  taught  Orgon  the  doctrine  of  ''  mental  reservation,"  just 
as  he  wished  to  teacli  Elmire  that  of  "  purity  of  intention,"  Pascal  at- 
tacks those  casuistical  subtleties  in  the  ninth  Provinciale. 


SCENE  111.]  TARTUFFE  ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  445 

and  that  his  cowardly  and  too  contemptible  pride  turns 
your  kindness  for  him  against  yourself? 

Org.  Even  so,  my  son  ;  and  it  causes  me  unutterable 
grief. 

Dam.  Leave  him  to  me,  I  will  slice  his  ears  off.  Such 
insolence  must  not  be  tolerated  :  it  is  my  duty  to  deliver 
you  from  him  at  once  ;  and,  to  put  an  end  to  this  matter, 
I  must  knock  him  down. 

Cle.  Spoken  just  like  a  regular  youth.  Moderate,  if 
you  please,  these  violent  transports.  We  live  under  a 
government,  and  in  an  age,  in  which  violence  only  makes 
matters  worse. 

Scene  III. — Madame  Pernelle,  Orgon,  Elmire,  Cle- 

ANTE,  MaRIANE,  DaMIS,  DoRINE. 

Mad.  p.  What  is  all  this  ?  What  dreadful  things  do  I 
hear! 

Org.  Some  novelties  which  my  own  eyes  have  witnessed, 
and  you  see  how  I  am  repaid  for  my  kindness.  I  affec- 
tionately harbour  a  fellow  creature  in  his  misery,  I  shelter 
him  and  treat  him  as  my  own  brother;  I  heap  favours 
upon  him  every  day  ;  I  give  him  my  daughter,  and  every- 
thing I  possess :  and,  at  that  very  moment,  the  perfidious, 
infamous  wretch  forms  the  wicked  design  of  seducing  my 
wife ;  and,  not  content  even  with  these  vile  attempts,  he 
dares  to  threaten  me  with  my  own  favours ;  and,  to  en- 
compass my  ruin,  wishes  to  take  advantage  of  my  indis- 
creet good  nature,  drive  me  from  my  property  which  I 
have  transferred  to  him,  and  reduce  me  to  that  condition 
from  which  I  rescued  him  ! 

Dor.  Poor  fellow ! 

Mad.  p.  I  can  never  believe,  my  son,  that  he  would 
commit  so  black  a  deed. 

Org.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Mad.  p.  Good  people  are  always  envied. 

Org.  What  do  you  mean  by  all  this  talk,  mother  ? 

Mad.  p.  That  there  are  strange  goings-on  in  your 
house,  and  that  we  know  but  too  well  the  hatred  they 
bear  him. 

Org.  What  has  this  hatred  to  do  with  what  I  have  told 
you? 


446  TARTUFFE  ;   OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  [act  v. 

Mad.  p.  I  have  told  you  a  hundred  times,  when  a  boy, 

"That  virtue  here  is  persecuted  ever; 
That  envious  men  may  die,  but  envy  never." 

Org.  But  in  what  way  does  this  bear  upon  to-day's 
doings  ? 

Mad.  p.  They  may  have  concocted  a  hundred  idle 
stories  against  him. 

Org.  I  have  already  told  you  that  I  have  seen  every- 
thing myself. 

Mad.  p.  The  malice  of  slanderers  is  very  great. 

Org.  You  will  make  me  swear,  mother.  I  tell  you  that 
with  my  own  eyes  I  have  witnessed  this  daring  crime. 

Mad.  p.  Evil  tongues  have  always  venom  to  scatter 
abroad,  and  nothing  here  below  can  guard  against  it. 

Org.  That  is  a  very  senseless  remark.  I  have  seen  it,  I 
say,  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  seen,  what  you  call  seen.  Am 
I  to  din  it  a  hundred  times  in  your  ears,  and  shout  like 
four  people  ? 

Mad.  p.  Goodness  me !  appearances  most  frequently 
deceive  :  you  must  not  always  judge  by  what  you  see. 

Org.  I  am  boiling  with  rage  ! 

Mad.  p.  Human  nature  is  liable  to  false  suspicions,  and 
good  is  often  construed  into  evil. 

Org.  I  must  construe  the  desire  to  embrace  my  wife 
into  a  charitable  design ! 

Mad.  p.  It  is  necessary  to  have  good  reasons  for  accus- 
ing people  ;  and  you  ought  to  have  waited  until  you  were 
quite  certain  of  the  thing. 

Org.  How  the  deuce  could  I  be  more  certain  ?  Ought 
I  to  have  waited,  mother,  until  to  my  very  eyes,  he  had 
.  .  .    You  will  make  me  say  some  foolish  thing. 

Mad.  p.  In  short,  his  soul  is  too  full  of  pure  zeal ;  and 
I  cannot  at  all  conceive  that  he  would  have  attempted  the 
things  laid  to  his  charge. 

Org.  Go,  my  passion  is  so  great  that,  if  you  were  not 
my  mother,  I  do  not  know  what  I  might  say  to  you. 

Dor.  (  To  Orgoti).  A  just  reward  of  things  here  below, 
Sir;  you  would  not  believe  anyone,  and  now  they  will 
not  believe  you. 

Cle.  We  are  wasting  in   mere  trifling,  the  time  that 


scKNKiv.]  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  447 

should  be  employed  in  devising  some  measures  We  must 
not  remain  inactive  when  a  knave  threatens. 

Dam.  What !  would  his  effrontery  go  to  that  extent  ? 

Elm.  As  for  me,  I  hardly  think  it  possible,  and  his  in- 
gratitude here  shows  itself  too  plainly. 

Cle.  (7J?  Organ).  Do  not  trust  to  that;  he  will  find 
some  means  to  justify  his  doings  against  you;  and  for  less 
than  this,  a  powerful  party  *^  has  involved  people  in  a  vexa- 
tious maze.  I  tell  you  once  more,  that,  armed  with  what 
he  has,  you  should  never  have  pushed  him  thus  far. 

Org.  True  enough;  but  what  could  I  do?  I  was 
unable  to  master  my  resentment  at  the  presumption  of  the 
■  wretch. 

Cle.  I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  that  we  could  patch  up 
even  a  shadow  of  peace  between  you  two. 

Elm.  Had  I  but  known  how  he  was  armed  against  us, 
I  would  have  avoided  bringing  things  to  such  a  crisis; 
and  my  .    .    . 

Org.  {To  JDorine,  seeing  M.  Loyal  come  in).  What 
does  this  man  want  ?  Go  and  see  quickly.  I  am  in  a 
fine  state  for  people  to  come  to  see  me ! 

Scene    IV. — Orgon,    Madame    Pernelle,    Elmire, 
Mariane,  Cleante,  Damis,  Dorine,  Mr.  Loyal. 

M.  LoY.  {To  Dorine  at  the  farther  part  of  the  stage). 
Good  morning,  dear  sister;**  pray,  let  me  speak  to  your 
master. 

Dor.  He  is  engaged ;  and  I  doubt  whether  he  can  see 
anyone  at  present. 

M^  LoY.  I  do  not  intend  to  be  intrusive  m  his  own 
house.  I  believe  that  my  visit  will  have  nothing  to  dis- 
please him.  I  have  come  upon  a  matter  of  which  he  will 
be  very  glad. 

Dor.  Your  name? 

M.  LoY.  Only  tell  him  that  I  am  come  from  Monsieur 
Tartuffe,  for  his  good. 


«T  The  originale has  cabale.     See  Vol.  II.,  page  129.  "ote  28. 
«8  M.  Loj-^il.  in  employing  the  words  "  dear  sister,'  shows  at  once  that 
he  is  worthy  of  being  employed  by  Tartuffe. 


448  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  [act  v. 

Dor.  {^To  Organ).  This  is  a  man  who  comes,  in  a 
gentle  way,  from  Monsieur  Tartuffe,  upon  some  business, 
of  which  he  says,  you  will  be  very  glad. 

Cle.  {^To  Organ).  You  must  see  who  this  man  is,  and 
what  he  wants. 

Org.  {To  Cleante).  Perhaps  he  comes  to  reconcile  us : 
How  shall  I  receive  him? 

Cle.  You  must  not  allow  your  anger  to  get  the  upper 
hand,  and  if  he  speaks  of  an  arrangement,  you  should 
listen  to  him. 

M.  LoY.  {Ta  Organ).  Your  servant.  Sir !  May  Heaven 
punish  those  who  would  harm  you,  and  may  it  favour  you 
as  much  as  I  wish ! 

Org.  {Softly  to  Cleante).  This  mild  beginning  confirms 
my  opinion,  and  augurs  already  some  reconciliation. 

M.  LoY.  Your  whole  family  has  always  been  dear  to 
me,  and  I  served  your  father. 

Org.  I  am  ashamed,  Sir,  and  crave  your  pardon  for  not 
knowing  you  or  your  name. 

M.  LoY.  My  name  is  Loyal,  a  native  of  Normandy,** 
and  I  am  a  tipstaff  to  the  court  in  spite  of  envy.'"  For 
the  last  forty  years,  I  have  had  the  happiness,  thanking 
Heaven,  of  exercising  the  functions  thereof  with  much 
honour ;  and  I  have  come,  with  your  leave,  Sir,  to  serve 
you  with  a  writ  of  a  certain  decree  .  .  . 

Org.  What  !  you  are  here  .  .  . 

M.  LoY.  Let  us  proceed  without  anger.  Sir.  It  is  no- 
thing but  a  summons;  a  notice  to  quit  this  house,  you 
and  yours,  to  remove  your  chattels,  and  to  make  room 
for  others,  without  delay  or  remissness,  as  required 
hereby. 

Org.  I !  leave  this  house ! 

M.  Lev.  Yes,  Sir,  if  you  please.  The  house  at  present, 
as  you  well  know,  belongs  incontestably  to  good  Monsieur 
Tartuffe.  Of  all  your  property,  he  is  henceforth  lord  and 
master,    by  virtue    of   a  contract   of  which   I   am   the 

®*  The  Normans  had  the  reputation  of  being  very  cautious  (avt'se) — the 
Scotch  express  it  by  pawky — and  also  of  being  very  fond  of  going  to  law ; 
hence  the  allusion.     The  original  has  huissier  a  verge. 

™  See  page  393,  note  24. 


scENB  iv.i  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  449 

bearer.  It  is  in  due  form,  and  nothing  can  be  said 
against  it. 

Dam.  {To  M.  Loyal").  Certainly  this  impudence  is 
immense,  and  I  admire  it ! 

M.  LoY.  {To  Damis).  Sir,  my  business  lies  not  with 
you  ;  {Pointing  to  Orgon),  it  is  with  this  gentleman.  He 
is  both  reasonable  and  mild,  and  knows  too  well  the  duty 
of  an  honest  man  to  oppose  the  law  in  any  way. 

Org.  But  .  ,  . 

M.  LoY.  Yes,  Sir,  I  know  that  you  would  not  rebel  for 
a  million  of  money,  and  that,  like  a  gentleman,  you  will 
allow  me  to  execute  here  the  orders  which  I  have  received. 

Dam.  Mr.  Tipstaff,  you  may  chance  to  get  your  black 
gown  well  dusted  here. 

M.  LoY.  {To  Orgon).  Order  your  son  to  hold  his 
tongue  or  to  retire.  Sir.  I  should  be  very  loth  to  have 
recourse  to  writing,  and  to  see  your  name  figure  in  my 
official  report. 

Dor.  {Aside).  This  Mr.  Loyal  has  a  very  disloyal  air. 

M.  LoY.  Having  a  great  deal  of  sympathy  with  all 
honest  people,  I  charged  myself  with  these  documents. 
Sir,  as  much  to  oblige  and  please  you,  as  to  avoid  the 
choice  of  those  who,  not  having  the  same  consideration 
for  you  that  inspires  me,  might  have  proceeded  in  a  less 
gentle  way. 

Org.  And  what  can  be  worse  than  to  order  people  to 
quit  their  own  house  ? 

M.  LoY.  You  are  allowed  time,  and  I  shall  suspend 
until  to-morrow  the  execution  of  the  writ.  Sir.  I  shall 
come  only  to  pass  the  night  here  with  ten  of  my  people 
without  noise  or  without  scandal.  For  form's  sake,  you 
must,  if  you  please,  before  going  to  bed,  bring  me  the 
keys  of  your  door.  I  shall  take  care  not  to  disturb  your 
rest,  and  to  permit  nothing  which  is  not  right.  But  to- 
morrow, you  must  be  ready  in  the  morning,  to  clear  the 
house  of  even  the  smallest  utensil ;  my  people  shall  assist 
you,  and  I  have  selected  strong  ones,  so  that  they  can 
help  you  to  remove  everything.  One  cannot  act  better 
than  I  do,  I  think  ;  and  as  I  am  treating  you  with  great 
indulgence,  I  entreat  you  also,  Sir,  to  profit  by  it,  so  that 
I  may  not  be  annoyed  in  the  execution  of  my  duty. 

VOL.   II.  2D 


450  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  Uctt. 

Org.  (Aside).  I  would  willingly  give  just  now  the  best 
hundred  gold  pieces  of  what  remains  to  me  for  the 
pleasure  of  striking  on  this  snout  the  soundest  blow  that 
ever  was  dealt. 

Cle.  (Softly  to  Orgon).  Leave  well  alone.  Do  not  let  us 
make  things  worse. 

Dam.  I  can  hardly  restrain  myself  at  this  strange  imper- 
tinence, and  my  fingers  are  itching. 

Dor.  Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Loyal,  with  such  a  broad 
back,  a  few  cudgel  blows  would  do  you  no  harm. 

M.  LoY.  We  might  easily  punish  these  infamous  words, 
sweetheart ;  and  there  is  a  law  against  women  too. 

Cle.  (To  Monsieur  Loyal).  Pray,  let  us  put  an  end  to 
all  this,  Sir.     Hand  over  this  paper  quickly,  and  leave  us. 

M.  LoY.  Till  by-and-by.     May  Heaven  bless  you  all ! 

Org.  And  may  it  confoimd  you,  and  him  who  sends 
you? 

Scene  V. — Orgon,  Madame  Pernelle,  Elmire, 
Cleante,  Mariane,  Damis,  Dorine. 

Org.  Well !  mother,  do  you  see  now  whether  I  am 
right ;  and  you  may  judge  of  the  rest  from  the  writ.  Do 
you  at  last  perceive  his  treacheries  ? 

Mad.  p.  I  stand  aghast,  and  feel  as  if  dropped  from 
the  clouds  ! 

Dor.  (To  Orgon).  You  are  wrong  to  complain,  you 
are  wrong  to  blame  him,  and  his  pious  designs  are  con- 
firmed by  this.  His  virtue  is  perfected  in  the  love  for  his 
neighbour.  He  knows  that  worldly  goods  often  corrupt 
people,  and  he  wishes,  from  pure  charity,  to  take  every- 
thing away  from  you  which  might  become  an  obstacle  to 
your  salvation. 

Org.  Hold  your  tongue.     I  must  always  be  saying  that 

to  you. 

Cle.  (To  Orgon).     Let  us  consult  what  had  best  be 

done. 

Elm.  Go  and  expose  the  audacity  of  the  nngratelul 
wretch.  This  proceeding  destroys  the  validity  of  the 
contract ;  and  his  treachery  will  appear  too  black  to  allow 
him  to  meet  with  the  success  which  we  surmise. 


SC«J«  vii.l  TARTUFFE ;   OR,   THE  HYPOCRITE.  451 

Scene  VI. — VALfeRE,  Orgon,  Madame  Pernelle, 
Elmire,  Cleante^  Mariane,  Damis,  Dorine. 

Val.  It  is  with  great  regret,  Sir,  that  I  come  to  afflict 
you  ;  but  I  see  myself  compelled  to  it  by  pressing  danger. 
A  most  intimate  and  faithful  friend,  who  knows  the  inter- 
est which  I  take  in  you,  has,  for  my  sake,  by  a  most  haz- 
ardous step,  violated  the  secrecy  due  to  the  affairs  of  the 
State,  and  has  just  sent  me  an  intimation,  in  consequence 
of  which  you  will  be  obliged  to  flee  immediately.  The 
scoundrel  who  has  long  imposed  upon  you  has  an  hour 
since  accused  you  to  the  King,  and  amongst  other  charges 
which  he  brings  against  you,  has  lodged  in  his  hands  im- 
portant documents  of  a  state-criminal,  of  which,  he  says, 
contrary  to  the  duty  of  a  subject,  you  have  kept  the  guilty 
secret.  I  am  ignorant  of  the  details  of  the  crime  laid  to 
your  charge;  but  a  warrant  is  out  against  you;  and  the 
better  to  execute  it,  he  himself  is  to  accompany  the  person 
who  is  to  arrest  you. 

Cle.  These  are  his  armed  rights ;  and  by  this  the 
traitor  seeks  to  make  himself  master  of  your  property. 

Org.  The  man  is,  I  own  to  you,  a  wicked  brute  ! 

Val.  The  least  delay  may  be  fatal  to  you.  I  have  my 
coach  at  the  door  to  carry  you  off,  with  a  thousand  louis 
which  I  bring  you.  Let  us  lose  no  time ;  the  blow  is 
terrible,  and  is  one  of  those  which  are  best  parried  by 
flight.  I  offer  myself  to  conduct  you  to  a  place  of  safety, 
and  will  accompany  you  to  the  end  of  your  flight. 

Org.  Alas,  what  do  I  not  owe  to  your  obliging  cares  ! 
I  must  await  another  opportunity  to  thank  you ;  and  I 
implore  Heaven  to  be  propitious  enough  to  enable  me 
one  day  to  acknowledge  this  generous  service.  Farewell : 
be  careful,  the  rest  of  you  .    .    . 

Cle,  Go  quickly.     We  will  endeavour,  brother,  to  do 
what  is  necessary. 
Scene  VII.— Tartuffe,   A    Police    Officer,    Madame 

Pernelle,  Orgon,  Elmire,  Cleante,  Mariane,  Va- 

LfeRE,  Damis,  Dorine. 

Tar.  {Stopping  Orgon).  Gently,  Sir,  gently,  do  not 
run  so  fast.  You  will  not  have  to  go  far  to  find  a  lodging; 
we  take  you  a  prisoner  in  the  King's  name. 


452  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  [act  v. 

Org.  Wretch !  you  have  reserved  this  blow  for  the  last : 
this  is  the  stroke,  villain,  by  which  you  dispatch  me;  and 
which  crowns  all  your  perfidies. 

Tar.  Your  abuse  cannot  incense  me;  Heaven  has 
taught  me  to  suffer  everything. 

Cle.  Your  moderation  is  great,  I  confess. 

Dam.  How  impudently  the  villain  sports  with  Heaven  ! 

Tar.  All  your  outrages  cannot  move  me  in  the  least ; 
and  I  think  of  nothing  but  my  duty. 

Mar.  You  may  glorify  yourself  very  much  upon  this ; 
and  this  task  is  very  honourable  for  you  to  undertake. 

Tar.  a  task  cannot  but  be  glorious  when  it  proceeds 
from  the  power  that  sends  me  hither. 

Org.  But  do  you  remember,  ungrateful  wretch ;  that 
my  charitable  hand  raised  you  from  a  miserable  con- 
dition? 

Tar.  Yes,  I  know  what  help  I  received  from  you ;  but 
the  King's  interest  is  my  first  duty.  The  just  obligation 
of  this  sacred  duty  stifles  all  gratitude  of  my  heart ;  and 
to  such  a  powerful  consideration,  I  would  sacrifice  friend, 
wife,  kindred,  and  myself  with  them. 

Elm.  The  hypocrite ! 

Dor.  How  artfully  he  makes  himself  a  lovely  cloak  of 
all  that  is  sacred. 

Cle.  But  if  this  zeal,  which  guides  you,  and  upon 
which  you  plume  yourself  so  much,  be  so  perfect  as  you 
say,  why  has  it  not  shown  itself  until  Orgon  caught  you 
trying  to  seduce  his  wife ;  and  why  did  you  not  think  of 
denouncing  him  until  his  honour  obliged  him  to  drive 
you  from  his  house  ?  I  do  not  say  that  the  gift  of  all  his 
property,  which  he  has  made  over  to  you,  ought  to  have 
turned  you  from  your  duty;  but  why,  wishing  to  treat 
him  as  a  criminal  to-day,  did  you  consent  to  take  aught 
from  him? 

Tar.  ( To  the  Officer).  Pray,  Sir,  deliver  me  from  this 
clamour,  and  be  good  enough  to  execute  your  orders. 

Offi.  Yes,  we  have  no  doubt,  delayed  too  long  to  dis- 
charge them ;  your  words  remind  me  of  this  just  in  time ; 
and  to  execute  them,  follow  me  directly  to  the  prison 
which  is  destined  for  your  abode." 

"  This  is  a  just  counterpart  of  the  deus  ex  mackina  of  Tartufife,  when 


■CBNB  vn.]  TARTUFFE ;  OR,  THE  HYPOCRITE.  453 

Tar.  Who?  I  Sir? 

Offi.  Yes,  you. 

Tar.  Why  to  prison  ? 

Offi.  I  have  no  account  to  give  to  you  {To  Orgon). 
Compose  yourself,  Sir,  after  so  great  an  alarm.  We  live 
under  a  monarch,  an  enemy  of  fraud,  a  monarch  whose 
eyes  penetrate  into  the  heart,  and  wliom  all  the  art  of 
impostors  cannot  deceive.  Blessed  with  great  discernment, 
his  lofty  soul  looks  clearly  at  things;  it  is  never  betrayed 
by  exaggeration,  and  his  sound  reason  falls  into  no  excess. 
He  bestows  lasting  glory  on  men  of  worth ;  but  he  shows 
this  zeal  without  blindness,  and  his  love  for  sincerity  does 
not  close  his  heart  to  the  horror  which  falsehood  must 
inspire."  Even  this  person  could  not  hoodwink  him,  and 
he  has  guarded  himself  against  more  artful  snares.  He 
soon  perceived,  by  his  subtle  penetration,  all  the  vileness 
concealed  in  his  inmost  heart.  In  coming  to  accuse  you, 
he  has  betrayed  himself,  and,  by  a  just  stroke  of  supreme 
justice,  discovered  himself  to  the  King  as  a  notorious 
rogue,  against  whom  information  had  been  laid  under 
another  name.  His  life  is  a  long  series  of  wicked  actions, 
of  which  whole  volumes  might  be  written.  Our  monarch, 
in  short,  has  detested  his  vile  ingratitude  and  disloyalty 
towards  you ;  has  joined  this  affair  to  his  other  misdeeds, 
and  has  placed  me  under  his  orders,  only  to  see  his  imper- 
tinence carried  out  to  the  end,  and  to  make  him  by  him- 
self give  you  satisfaction  for  everything.  Yes,  he  wishes 
me  to  strip  the  wretch  of  all  your  documents  which  he 
professes  to  possess,  and  to  give  them  into  your  hands. 
By  his  sovereign  power  he  annuls  the  obligations  of  the 
contract  which  gave  him  all  your  property,  and  lastly, 
pardons  you  this  secret  offence,  in  which  the  flight  of  a 
friend  has  involved  you ;  and  it  is  the  reward  of  your 
former  zeal  in  upholding  his  rights,  to  show  that  he  knows 
how  to  recompense  a  good  action  when  least  thought  of; 

he  says,  in  the  seventh  scene  of  the  fourth  act,  to  Orgon,  "  It  is  for  you  to 
get  out,  you  who  assume  the  mastership :  the  house  belongs  to  me,  I  will 
make  you  know  it." 

"  This  praise  was  not  wholly  undeserved  in  1669 ;  although  there  seems 
to  me  rather  too  much  of  it.  When  Tartuffe  was  played  during  the  first 
French  Revolution,  these  lines  were  altered  to  suit  the  times,  and,  of 
course,  the  praise  of  the  King  was  omitted. 


454  tartuffe;  or,  the  hypocrite.  [actt. 

that  merit  never  loses  aught  with  him;  and  that  he 
remembers  good  much  better  than  evil." 

Dor.  Heaven  be  praised  ! 

Mad.  p.  I  breathe  again. 

Elm.  Favourable  success  ! 

Mar.  Who  dared  foretell  this  ? 

Org.  {To  Tartuffe,  whom  the  officer  leads  off).  Well, 
wretch,  there  you  are   .    .    . 

Scene  VIII. — Madame  Pernelle,  Orgon,  Elmire,  Mar- 
iane,  Cleante,  Valere,  Damis,  Dorine. 

Cle.  Ah  !  brother,  stop  ;  and  do  not  descend  to  indig- 
nities. Leave  the  wretch  to  his  fate,  and  do  not  add  to 
the  remorse  that  overwhelms  him.  Rather  wish  that  his 
heart,  from  this  day,  may  be  converted  to  virtue ;  that  he 
may  reform  his  life,  in  detesting  his  vice,  and  soften  the 
justice  of  our  great  prince ;  while  you  throw  yourself  at 
his  knees  to  render  thanks  for  his  goodness,  which  has 
treated  you  so  leniently. 

Org.  Yes,  it  is  well  said.  Let  us  throw  ourselves  joy- 
fully at  his  feet,  to  laud  the  kindness  which  his  heart  dis- 
plays to  us.  Then,  having  acquitted  ourselves  of  this  first 
duty,  we  must  apply  ourselves  to  the  just  cares  of  another, 
and  by  a  sweet  union  crown  in  Val6re  the  flame  of  a  gen- 
erous and  sincere  lover. 

■f"  The  analysis  of  the  officer's  sx>eech  given  in  the  so-often-quoted 
Lettre  sur  V Imposteur  proves  that  it  was  different  from  what  it  now  is. 
In  speaking  of  Louis  XIV.,  he  says  that  "the  prince  had  seen  into 
the  heart  of  the  wretch,  by  an  intuition,  which  monarchs  possess  above 
all  other  men,  that  calumny  is  abashed  by  his  mere  presence,"  and  that 
he  dislikes  hypocrisy  as  much  as  it  has  influence  over  his  subjects. 
All  these  remarks  are  not  to  be  found  in  the  officer's  speech  as  we  now 
possess  it. 


AMPHITRYON. 

COMEDIE. 


AMPHITRYON. 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS. 

{.THE  ORIGINAL  IN  VERSE.) 

13TH  January  1668. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTICE. 


The  history  of  Amphitryon  and  Alcmena,  or  rather  the  myth  of  the  birth 
of  Hercules,  is  certainly  very  old,  and  is  to  be  found  in  the  literature  of 
different  nations.  The  Indians,  the  Greeks,  and  the  Romans  were  ac- 
quainted with  it ;  and  it  exists  also  among  the  legendary  tales  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  but  always  modified  according  to  the  several  nationalities  where 
we  meet  with  it,  and  has  sometimes  a  tragical,  sometimes  a  jocular  or 
ironical,  ending. 

Voltaire,  in  his  Historical  Fragments  about  India,  in  the  twenty-eighth 
article  on  The  Terrestrial  Paradise  of  the  Indians,  relates  how  the  story 
of  Amphitryon  is  found  amongst  the  oldest  fables  of  the  Brahmins.  A 
certain  Brahmin  having  quarrelled  with  his  wife,  gave  her  a  beating  and 
left  her ;  an  Indian  divinity  of  an  inferior  rank  adopted  the  appearance  of 
the  Brahmin,  made  his  peace  with  her,  and  lived  for  some  time  with  her, 
until  the  real  husband,  who  repented  of  his  former  behaviour,  came  back 
again.  But  the  man  in  possession  declared  that  the  other  was  an  impos- 
tor, and  at  last  the  affair  was  brought  before  the  Synod  of  Benares,  who 
ordered  an  ordeal,  which  cannot  be  related,  but  in  which  finally  the  evil- 
minded  divinity  betrayed  himself,  and  the  lawful  husband  was  reinstated 
in  the  matrimonial  abode.i 

Euripides,  Epicharmus,  and  Archippos  have  also  handled  this  subject, 
and  produced  it  on  the  Greek  stage  ;  but  their  plays  are  lost.  Plautus, 
the  father  of  Roman  comedy,  has  written  an  Amphitruo.  which  he  him- 
self calls  in  the  prologue  "  Tragico-Comoedia.''  As  Moli^re  owes  a  great 
deal  of  his  comedy  to  his  Latin  prototype,  we  cannot  do  better  than  give 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  Introduction  to  Dryden's  remodelling  of  Amphitryoit  : 
— "  Plautus,  the  venerable  father  of  Roman  comedy,  who  flourished  dur- 
ing the  second  Punic  war,  left  us  a  play  on  the  subject  of  Amphitryon, 
which  has  had  the  honour  to  be  deemed  worthy  of  imitation  by  Molidre 
and  Dryden.  It  cannot  be  expected  that  the  plain,  blunt,  and  inartificial 
style  of  so  rude  an  age  should  bear  any  comparison  with  that  of  the  au- 
thors who  enjoyed  the  highest  advantages  of  the  polished  times  to  which 
they  were  an  ornament.  But  the  merit  of  having  devised  and  embodied 
most  of  the  comic  distresses,  which  have  excited  laughter  throughout  so 

I  Moland  and  several  other  commentators  of  Moliere  say  that  Voltaire  found  this 
Indian  legend  in  Colonel  Dow's  book.  I  have  looked  in  Voltaire  ;  but  he  does  not 
say  so,  nor  can  I  find  it  in  Dow's  Inaijat  Allah, — tales  translated  from  the  Per- 
sian, nor  in  his  History  of  Hindostan. 

457 


4S8  AMPHITRYON. 

SO  many  ages,  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  ancient  bard  upon  whose  original 
conception  of  the  plot  his  successors  have  made  few  and  inconsiderable 
improvements.  It  is  true  that,  instead  of  a  formal  Prologue  who  stepped 
forth  in  the  character  of  Mercury  and  gravely  detailed  to  the  audience 
the  plot  of  the  play,  Moli^re  and  Dryden  have  introduced  it  in  the  mod- 
em, more  artificial  method,  by  the  dialogue  of  the  actors  in  the  first  scene. 
It  is  true,  also,  that  with  great  contempt  of  one  of  the  unities,  afterwards 
deemed  so  indispensable  by  the  ancients,  Plautus  introduces  the  birth  of 
Hercules  into  a  play,  founded  upon  the  intrigue  which  occasioned  the 
event.  Yet  with  all  these  disadvantages,  and  that  rude  flatness  of  his  dia- 
logue,— resting  frequently,  for  wit,  upon  the  most  miserable  puns, — the 
comic  device  of  the  two  Sosias,  the  errors  into  which  the  malice  of  Mer- 
cury plunges  his  unlucky  original,  the  quarrel  of  Alcmena  with  her  real 
husband,  and  her  reconcihation  with  Jupiter  in  his  stead,  the  final  con- 
fronting of  the  two  Amphitryons,  and  the  astonishment  of  the  unfortunate 
general  at  finding  every  proof  of  his  identity  exhibited  by  his  rival,  are  all, 
however  rudely  sketched,  the  inventions  of  the  Roman  poet.  In  one  re- 
spect it  would  seem  that  ihej'eu  de  theatre  necessary  to  render  the  piece 
probable  upon  the  stage,  was  better  managed  in  the  time  of  Plautus  than 
in  that  of  Dryden  and  Moliere.  Upon  a  modern  stage  it  is  evidently  diffi- 
cult to  introduce  two  pairs  of  characters  so  extremely  alike  as  to  make  it 
at  all  probable,  or  even  possible,  that  the  mistakes,  depending  upon  their 
extreme  resemblance,  could  take  place.  But,  favoured  by  the  masks  and 
costume  of  the  ancient  theatre,  Plautus  contrived  to  render  Jupiter  and 
Mercury  so  exactly  like  Amphitryon  and  Sosia,  that  they  were  obliged  to 
retain  certain  marks,  supposed  to  be  invisible  to  the  other  persons  of  the 
drama,  by  which  the  audience  themselves  might  be  enabled  to  distinguish 
the  gods  from  the  mortals  whose  forms  they  had  assumed." 

The  history  of  Amphitryon,  strangely  disguised,  is  also  found  in  the 
long  series  of  the  romances  of  the  San-Graal  and  of  the  Round  Table,  and 
refers  to  the  birth  of  King  Arthur,  and  not  to  that  of  Hercules.  In  the 
following  manner  Robert  of  Gloucester  tells  the  tale,  after  Geoffiy  of 
Monmouth  and  Wace : — 

"At  the  fest  of  Estre  the  kyng  (Uther  Pendragon)  sende  ys  sonde. 
That  heo  comen  alle  to  London  the  hey  men  of  this  londe    .    .    . 
AUe  the  noble  men  of  this  lond  to  the  noble  fest  come. 
And  heore  wyves  and  heore  dogtren  with  hem  mony  nome. 
This  fest  was  noble  ynow,  and  nobliche  y  do  ; 
For  mony  was  the  faire  ledy,  that  y  come  was  therto. 
Ygerne,  Gorloys  wyf,  was  fairest  of  echon, 
That  was  contasse  of  Come  wail,  for  so  fair  nas  ther  non. 
IT'he  kyng  by  huld  hire  faste  y  now,  and  ys  herte  on  hired  caste, 

•  And  thogte,  thay  heo  were  wyf,  to  do  folye  atte  laste." 

But  she  refused  to  listen  to  him,  and  told  all  to  her  husband,  who,  full 
of  anger  and  "  with  oute  leve  of  the  kyng,"  went  back  to  his  own  coun- 
try. Then  Gorloys  placed  his  wife  and  some  of  his  troops  in  a  very  strong 
fortress,  Tintagell,  and  went  himself  with  a  division  of  his  retainers  into 
another  fortress  of  Cornwall.  Uther  soon  made  his  appearance,  and  "  the 
castel,  that  the  erl  inne  was,  the  king  by  segede  faste.''  But  Ygerne  was 
never  out  of  his  thoughts,  and  "  the  castel  ys  so  strong  that  the  lady  ys 
inne,"  that  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  greatest  despair.  Merlyn,  who 
"was  sory  ynow  for  the  kynge's  folye,''  was  sent  for,  and  by  his  magic  art 
he  gave  to  Uther  the  appearance  of  Gorloys,  while  he  himself,  and  Uliyn, 
the  king's  confidant,  assumed  the  outward  looks  of  two  of  the  earl  of 


AMPHITRYON. 


459 


Cornwall's  "  men,"  Brithoel  and  Jordan.  Thus  changed,  they  appear  be- 
fore the  castle,  where  the  countess  was,  and  the  porter,  seeing  his  lord  and 
his  friends,  let  them  in,  ''  The  contas  was  glad  y  now,  thohire  lord  to  hire 
com,  and  eyther  other  in  here  armes  myd  gret  joye  nom."  In  the  mean- 
time the  king's  men  took  the  castle  where  the  earl  was,  Gorloys  was  slain 
and  these  tidings  were  brought  to  Ygerne.  The  pretended  earl  told  her! 
however,  that  he  had  left  his  own  castle  secretly,  "  that  none  of  myne 
menyt  nuste,"  and  that  he  was  going  back  to  "  the  kynge,  and  make  my 
pays  with  him."  He  went  away  and  "  come  toward  ys  men  ys  own  forme 
he  nom."  Afterwards  king  Uther  married  the  noble  and  widowed  coun- 
tess, but  or.  that  night,  when  he  appeared  as  Gorloys, 

"Bi  gete  was  the  beste  body,  that  ever  was  in  this  londe, 
Kyng  Arthure  the  noble  mon,  that  ever  worthe  understonde." 

There  is  a  gfreat  difference  between  the  Celtic  and  classical  tradition, 
Ygerne  is  not  wholly  ]^unlike  Alcmena ;  but  the  comical  element  is  totally 
wanting  in  the  first,  whilst  Arthur  and  Merlin,  although  peculiar  in  their 
notions  of  love  and  morality,  are  staid  and  mysterious  personages. 

Plautus'  Amphitryo  was  acted  in  Latin,  in  Italy,  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, and  in  1560,  Lodovico  Dolce  brought  out  an  imitation  of  it,  under 
the  title  of  //  Marito.  But  two  earlier  translations  of  this  play  already 
existed  in  Spanish ;  one  in  prose,  done  by  Francisco  de  Villalobos,  physi- 
cian to  Charles  the  Fifth,  which  was  published  in  1515,  and  nnother  by 
Fernando  Perez  de  Oliva,  principal  of  the  university  of  Salamanca, 
Camoens,  the  poet  of  the  Lusiad,  produced  a  piece  in  imitation  of  Plautus' 
comedy,  which,  according  to  de  Sismondi's  Historical  view  of  the  Litera- 
ture of  the  South  of  Europe,  "  is  executed  with  considerable  wit  and  spirit," 
In  1638,  Jean  de  Rotrou  published  an  imitation  of  the  Latin  coniedy,  in 
French,  which  he  called  The  Two  Sosias,  and  in  1650.  only  a  short  time 
before  his  death,  he  remodelled  his  piece,  for  the  theatre  du  Marais,  as 
une  grande  piece  a  machines,  which  bore  the  title  of  The  birth  of  Hercules. 
In  1653  there  was  represented  at  the  court  the  grand  Ballet  of  Night,  ar- 
ranged by  Benserade,  with  machinery  by  Torelli.  The  sixth  entree  of  the 
second  veille,  is  occupied  by  a  pantomime  {cotnedie  muette),  which  is 
chiefly  based  on  Plautus'  plot. 

Fifteen  years  after  this  pantomime,  Moli§re  fixed  upon  the  same  sub- 
ject, and  wrote  his  Amphitryon,  one  of  the  most  charming  and  natural 
comedies  composed  in  French  verse.  But  his  husband  is  not  the  Roman 
spouse,  who  is  rather  proud  of  having  a  god  for  collaborcteur,  nor  does 
his  Jupiter,  who  threatens  to  kill  himself  before  Alcmena's  eyes,  give  a 
very  correct  idea  of  the  classical  *'  father  of  gods  and  men."  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  his  Cleanthis  is  a  happy  creation,  and  the  model  of  a 
"  nagging  "  but  virtuous  woman,  so  fond  of  using  her  tongue,  that  even 
Mercury,  although  a  god  under  the  disguise  of  her  husband,  rather  avoids 
responding  to  her  uxorious  advances,  and  thereby  causes  an  increase  of 
the  wrath  of  the  shrew.  This  greatly  enhances  the  comic  interest  of  the 
play,  and  forms  an  amusing  contrast  to  the  display  of  conjugal  tenderness 
between  Jupiter,  the  pretended  Amphitryon,  and  the  newly-married 
Alcmena.  Sprightliness  and  vivacity  abound  in  this  comedy,  which  are 
enhanced  by  the  short  and  long  verses,  used  whenever  suitable,  and  the 
alternate  rhymes,  in  which  it  is  wrritten. 

It  has  been  said  that  Moli^re,  in  producing  his  Amphitryon,  wished  to 
flatter  the  nascent  passion  of  Louis  XIV.  for  Madame  de  Montespan,  but 


460 


AMPHITRYON. 


this  accusation  seems  to  me  absolutely  without  foundation.  This  play 
was  represented  on  the  13th  of  January,  1668 ;  and  it  was  only  some 
months  later  that  this  high-bom  lady  became  the  recognized  mistress  of 
the  King,  wlio  would  not  have  permitted  any  allusions  to  be  made  to  his 
amours.  Moreover,  Amphitryon  was  not  represented  at  Court,  but  at  the 
theatre  of  the  Palais  Royal,  so  that  the  allusions — if  any  existed — must  hav? 
appeared  to  the  Parisian  public,  at  all  times  inclined  to  be  satirical,  as  far 
from  complimentary.  In  any  case  the  comedy  was  very  successful,  and 
was  represented  twenty-nine  consecutive  times. 

Amphitryon  was  dedicated  to  the  Prince  de  Conde  in  the  following 
words : — 

My  Lord,  , 

Under  favor  of  the  Wits,  I  know  nothing  more  impertinent  than  Dedications ; 
and  Your  most  serene  Highness  will  give  me  leave  not  to  follow  here  the  style  of 
those  gentlemen,  and  to  omit  using  two  or  three  miserable  thoughts,  which  have 
been  turned  and  returned  so  often,  that  they  are  worn  threadbare.  The  name  of 
the  Great  Conde  is  too  glorious  a  name  to  be  treated  like  other  names.  Ihat 
illustrious  nam^  must  be  applied  to  no  uses  unworthy  of  it  ;  and  were  I  to  say  fine 
things,  I  would  rather  talk  of  putting  it  at  the  head  of  an  army,  than  at  the  head  of 
a  book  ;  and  I  should  much  better  conceive  what  it  is  able  to  do,  by  opposing  it 
to  the  forces  of  the  enemies  of  the  state,  than  by  opposing  it  to  the  criticism  of  the 
enemies  of  a  Play. 

Not  but  that  your  serene  highness'  approbation  is  a  powerful  protection  for  all 
these  kind  of  works,  and  that  people  are  persuaded  of  your  knowledge,  as  well  as 
of  your  intrepid  courage  and  your  greatness  of  soul.  It  is  known  throughout  the 
whole  world,  that  your  merit  is  not  circumscribed  by  the  bounds  of  that  unconquer- 
able valour  which  gains  adorers  even  amongst  those  whom  it  vanquishes  ;  that 
that  merit  extends  even  to  the  nicest  and  sublimest  sciences  ;  and  that  yrur  decis- 
ions concerning  intellectual  works  never  fail  to  be  assented  to  even  by  the  most 
fastidious.  But  it  is  likewise  known,  my  Lord,  that  all  those  glorious  approba- 
tions which  we  boast  of  to  the  public  cost  us  nothing  to  print,  and  that  they  are 
things  which  we  dispose  of  at  pleasure.  It  is  known,  I  say,  that  an  epistle  dedica- 
tory says  what  it  pleaises,  and  that  an  author  has  it  in  his  power  to  lay  hold  of  the 
most  august  persons,  and  to  adorn  the  first  leaves  of  his  book  with  their  great 
names ;  that  he  has  the  liberty  herein  to  give  himself  the  honour  of  their  esteem 
as  much  as  he  will,  and  to  make  to  himself  protectors  who  never  had  the  least 
thoughts  of  being  so. 

I  shall  neither  abuse  your  name  nor  your  goodness ,  my  Lord,  to  oppugn  the 
critics  of  Amphitryon,  and  to  assume  a  glory  which  perhaps  I  have  not  deserved  ; 
and  I  take  the  liberty  of  offering  you  my  play,  only  to  have  the  opportunity  of 
letting  you  know  that  I  incessantly  regard  you  with  profound  veneration,  the  great 
qualities  which  you  join  to  the  august  blood  from  which  you  descend,  and  that  I 
am,  my  Lord,  with  all  possible  respect  and  imaginable  zeal,  your  most  serene 
Highness'  very  humble,  very  obedient,  and  very  obliging  servant, 

MOLlfeRE. 

In  the  seventh  volume  of  the  translated  Select  Comedies  of  M.  de  Mo- 
li^re,  London,  1732,  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  Right  Honourable  George 
Dodington,  E^q.,  in  the  following  words: 

Sir  : — You  are  so  generally  known  to  be  an  Encourager  of  Literature,  that  every 
Professor  of  it,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  considers  you  as  his  Friend ;  and 
grows  ambitious  of  paying  his  best  Respects  to  one  whose  Genius,  Learning,  Po- 
liteness, Candour,  Benevolence,  and  Love  of  the  Muses  are  so  eminently  remarkable. 
Give  me  leave  therefore  to  lay  before  you  a  Translation  of  Molierk's  Amphitryon: 
the  Fruits  of  my  leisure  Hours.  And  as  the  Rhyme  and  Measure  of  the  Verses  in 
the  Original  make  it  difficult  to  be  render'd  literally  into  English  Prose,  be  so 
good  as  to  excuse  such  Passages  as  your  Judgment  cannot  approve. 

Most  Writers  would  launch  out  on  this  occasion,  and  elaborately  draw  a  Charac- 
ter which,  however  pleasing  it  might  prove  to  others,  would,  I  am  confident,  be 
disagreeable  to  you. — But,  for  my  part,  I  shall  only  add,  that  whatsoever  Motives 


AMPHITRYON.      •  461 

Dedications  usually  proceed  from,  the  sole  Intent  of  this  to  assure  you  and  all  the 
World,  that  1  am,  with  great  esteem.  Sir,— J-o«r  most  Obedient  Humble  S-'r-iant 

THE  TRANSLATOR.    ' 

John  Dryden,  in  his  Amphitryon,  performed  in  1690,  has  borrowed 
both  from  Plautus  and  Moliere;  "But,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  '-the 
wretched  taste  of  the  age  has  induced  him  to  lard  the  piece  with  gratui- 
tous indelicacy.  He  is,  in  general,  coarse  and  vulgar,  where  Moliere  is 
witty ;  and  where  the  Frenchman  ventures  upon  a  double  meaning,  the 
Englishman  always  contrives  to  make  it  a  single  one.  Yet,  although  in- 
ferior to  Moliere,  and  accommodated  to  the  gross  taste  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  "  Amphitryon  "  is  one  of  tlie  happiest  effusions  of  Drvden's 
comic  muse.  He  enriches  the  plot  by  the  intrigue  of  Mercury  and  Phte- 
dra;  and  the  petulant  interested  "  Queen  of  Gipsies,"  as  her  lover  terms 
her,  is  a  bad  paramour  for  the  God  of  Thieves.  In  the  scenes  of  a  higiier 
cast  Dryden  far  outstrips  both  the  French  and  Roman  poets.  The  sensa- 
tion to  be  expressed  is  not  that  of  sentimental  affection,  which  the  good 
father  of  Olympus  was  not  capable  of  feeling ;  but  love  of  that  grosser  and 
subordinate  kind,  which  prompted  Jupiter  in  his  intrigues,  has  been  by 
none  of  the  ancient  poets  expressed  in  more  beautiful  verse  than  that  in 
which  Dryden  has  clothed  it,  in  the  scenes  between  Jupiter  and  Alc- 
mena." 

Dr.  Hawkesworth  remodelled  and  castrated  Dryden 's  Amfhitryon,  m 
which  altered  form  it  was  acted  at  the  Theatres  Royal,  Drury  Lane  and 
Covent-Garden.  '' Dryden's  comedy,"  says  the  Doctor,  "is  so  tainted 
with  the  profaneness  and  immodesty  of  the  times  in  which  he  wrote,  that 
the  present  time,  however  selfish  and  corrupt,  has  too  much  regard  to  ex- 
ternal decorum  to  permit  the  representation  of  it  upon  the  stage,  without 
drawing  a  veil,  at  least,  over  some  parts  of  its  deformity."  It  is  further 
stated,  in  the  preface  to  Dr.  Hawkesworth's  alteration,  ''  In  the  scene  be- 
tween Sosia  and  Mercury,  in  the  second  act,  Amphitryon  is  supposed  to 
have  sent  a  buckle  of  diamonds  by  Sosia  as  a  present  to  Alcmena;  for 
Sosia  first  asks  Mercury  if  Amphitryon  did  send  a  certain  servant  with  a 
present  to  his  wife ;  and  soon  after  asks  him,  "  What  that  present  was;" 
which,  by  Mercury's  answer,  appears  to  be  the  diamond  buckle.  Yet  in 
the  scene  between  Amphitryon  and  Alcmena  in  the  third  act,  when  Alc- 
mena asks  him,  as  a  proof  of  having  been  with  her  before,  from  whose 
hands  she  had  the  jewel,  he  cries  out,  "  This  is  amazing ;  have  I  already 

given  you  those  diamonds?  the  present  I  reserved ."     And  instead 

of  supposing  that  Sosia  had  delivered  them  as  part  of  his  errand,  which 
he  pretended  he  could  not  execute,  he  appeals  to  him  for  their  being  in 
safe  custody,  reserved  to  be  presented  by  himself.  This  is  an  incon- 
sistencv  peculiar  to  Dryden,  for  neither  Plautus  nor  Moliere  anywhere 
mention  the  present  to  have  been  sent  by  Sosia.  There  is  another  mac- 
curacy  of  the  same  kind  which  occurs  both  in  Plautus  and  Molidre.  It 
appears,  in  the  second  scene  of  the  second  act.  that  one  paijt  of  Sosia  s 
errand  was  to  give  Alcmena  a  particular  account  of  the  battle  ;  and  So- 
sia's  account  of  his  being  prevented  is  so  extravagant  and  absurd  that 
Amphitryon  cannot  believe  it;  yet,  when  Alcmena,  in  the  third  scene 
asks  Amphitryon  how  she  came  to  know  what  he  had  sent  Sosia  to  tei/ 
her,  Amphitryon,  in  astonishment,  seems  to  admit  that  .she  could  know 
these  particulars  only  from  himself  and  does  not  consider  her  questions 
as  a  proof  that  Sosia  had  indeed  delivered  his  message,  though  for  some 
reasons,  he  had  pretended  the  contrary,  and  forged  an  '"credible  sory 
to  account  for  his  neglect.    As  it  would  have  been  so  much  more  natural 


462  AMPHITRYON. 

for  Amphitryon  to  have  supposed  that  Sosia  had  told  him  a  lie,  than  that 
Alcmena  had  by  a  miracle  learned  what  only  he  and  Sosia  could  tell 
her,  without  seeing  either  of  them ;  this  inaccuracy  is  removed  by  intro- 
ducing such  a  supposition,  and  making  the  dialogue  correspond  with  it. 
In  the  second  Act,  Jupiter,  in  the  character  of  Amphitryon,  leaves  Alc- 
mena with  much  reluctance,  pretending  haste  to  return  to  the  camp,  and 
great  solicitude  to  keep  his  visit  to  her  a  secret  from  Thebans ;  yet  when 
he  appears  again  in  the  third  Act,  which  he  knew  would  be  taken  for  the 
third  appearance  of  Amphitryon,  he  does  not  account  for  his  supposed 
second  appearance  at  the  return  of  the  real  Amphitryon,  just  after  his  de- 
parture, which  seems  to  be  absolutely  necessary  to  maintain  his  borrowed 
character  consistently ;  and  without  dropping  the  least  hint  of  his  being 
no  longer  solicitous  to  conceal  his  excursion  from  the  camp,  he  sends 
Sosia  to  invite  several  of  the  citizens  to  dinner.  Many  other  inaccura- 
cies less  considerable  and  less  apparent  have  been  removed,  which  it 
is  not  necessary  to  point  out :  whoever  shall  think  it  worth  while  dili- 
gently to  compare  the  play  as  it  stood,  with  the  altered  copy,  can  scarce 
fail  to  see  the  reason  of  the  alterations  as  they  occur.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed that  there  are  still  many  things  in  Amphitryon,  which,  though  I 
did  not  obliterate,  I  would  not  have  written  ;  but  I  think  none  of  these 
are  exceptionable  in  a  moral  view."  Let  us  add  to  this,  that  the  Doc- 
tor altered  also  some  of  Dryden's  songs,  and  substituted  others  which 
are  very  flat.     In  the  Prologue  he  says : 

"The  scenes  which  Plautus  drew  to-night  we  shew. 
Touched  by  Moliere,  by  Dryden  taught  to  glow. 
Dryden  ! — in  evil  day  his  genius  rose. 
When  wit  and  decency  were  constant  foes  : 
Wit  then  defiled  in  manners  and  in  mind. 
Whene'er  he  sought  to  please,  disgrac'd  mankind. 
Freed  from  his  faults,  we  bring  him  to  the  fair." 

A  German  lit^rateur,  Heinrich  von  Kleist  (1776-1811)  has  also  written 
an  Amphitryott,  in  which  he  freely  imitates  Moliere.  The  great  differ- 
ence is  in  the  conversation  between  Jupiter,  as  Amphitryon,  and  Alc- 
mena, which,  in  the  German  author  is  full  of  a  certain  kind  of  mystic 
sentimentality,  and  in  which  Jove,  disguised  as  Amphitryon,  informs 
her  that  the  real  Amphitryon,  who  has  visited  her,  is  the  father  of 
gods  and  men. 


Theban  captains. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

in  the  prologue. 
Mercury.  |  Night. 

IN  the  comedy. 
Jupiter,  in  the  form  of  Amphitryon. 
Mercury,  in  the  form  of  Sosia. 
Amphitryon,  general  of  the  Thebans. 
Argatiphontidas, 
Naucrates, 

POLIDAS, 

Pausicles, 
SosiA,  Amphitryon' s  servant? 
Alcmena,  Amphitryon'  s  wife. 
Cleanthis,  her  maid,  Sosia' s  wife. 

Scene. — Thebes,  before  Amphitryon's  House. 


*  This  part  was  played  by  the  author  himself.  In  the  inventory  ^ven 
by  M.  Soulie,  and  so  often  quoted,  Moli^re's  dress  in  the  character  of 
Sosia  consists  of:  "  the  sleeves  and  the  lower  part  of  the  theatrical  classi- 
cal cuirass  (tonneUf)  of  green  taffeta,  with  a  small  lace  of  fine  silver,  a 
chemisette  of  the  same  taffeta,  two  leggings  of  red  satin,  a  pair  of  shoes, 
with  tags,  ornamented  with  silver  lace,  with  a  silk  stocking  of  a  p)eculiar 
kind  of  light  green  colour  (Cetadon),  the  festoons,  the  belt  and  a  skirt,  and 
a  cap,  embroidered  with  fine  gold  and  silver." 


AMPHITRYON. 


PROLOGUE. 


Mercury,  on  a  cloud;    Night,  drawn  through  the  air  by 
two  horses. 

Merc.  Gently  !  charming  Night,  deign  to  stay  a-while. 
Some  help  is  wanted  of  you ;  and  I  have  two  words  to 
say  to  you  from  Jupiter. 

Night.  Ah !  it  is  you,  Sir  Mercury !  who  would  have 
thought  of  you  in  such  a  position  ? 

Merc.  Upon  my  word,  getting  tired,  and  not  being 
able  to  fulfil  the  different  duties  which  Jupiter  lays  upon 
me,  I  quietly  sat  down  on  this  cloud  to  await  your  coming. 

Night.  You  are  jesting,  Mercury;  and  you  do  not 
mean  it  \  does  it  become  the  gods  to  say  that  they  are 
tired  ? 

Merc.  Are  the  gods  made  of  iron  ? 

Night.  I  wot  not ;  but  it  is  meet  to  preserve  continu- 
ally the  divine  decorum.  There  are  certain  words  the  use 
of  which  lowers  this  sublime  attribute,  and  which  should 
be  left  to  men,  because  they  are  undignified. 

Merc.  How  easily  you  speak  of  it ',  and  you  have,  fair 
charmer,  a  chariot,  in  which,  like  a  careless  great  lady, 
you  are  drawn  by  two  good  horses  wherever  you  like.  But 
it  is  not  the  same  thing  with  me,  and  I  cannot,  in  my 
fatal  destiny,  bear  the  poets  too  great  a  grudge,  for  their 
extreme  impertinence,  in  having,  by  an  unjust  law,  of 
which  they  wish  to  keep  up  the  custom,  given  to  each 

VOL.  II.  2E  465 


466  AMPHITRYON. 

god,  for  his  behoof,  a  special  conveyance,  and  have  left 
me  to  go  on  foot,  me,  like  a  village  messenger ;  I,  who, 
as  is  well  known,  am  the  famous  messenger  of  the  sove- 
reign of  the  gods,  in  the  skies  and  on  the  earth  ;  and  who, 
without  exaggerating  anything,  stand  more  than  any  one 
else  in  need  of  the  means  of  travelling  about,  on  account 
of  all  the  duties  which  he  lays  upon  me. 

Night.  How  can  you  help  it  ?  The  poets  do  as  they 
like.  It  is  not  the  first  stupidity  which  we  have  seen  these 
gentlemen  commit.  But  at  any  rate,  your  irritation 
against  them  is  unreasonable,  for  the  wings  at  your  feet 
are  due  to  their  care. 

Merc.  Yes ;  but  does  one  tire  oneself  less  in  going 
more  quickly  ? 

Night.  Let  us  leave  this,  Sir  Mercury,  and  come  to  the 
point. 

Merc.  It  is  Jupiter,  as  I  have  told  you,  who  wishes  the 
sombre  favour  of  your  cloak  for  a  certain  gallant  adven- 
ture, with  which  a  new  love-affair  provides  him.  His  tac- 
/tics  are  not  new  to  you,  I  believe  :  he  very  often  neglects 
the  skies  for  the  earth  ;  and  you  are  not  ignorant  that  this 
master  of  the  gods  is  fond  of  becoming  humanized  for 
mortal  beauties,  and  has  a  hundred  ingenious  tricks  to 
vanquish  the  most  cruel.  He  has  felt  the  darts  of  Alc- 
mena's  eyes  ;  and  whilst  Amphitryon,  her  husband,  com- 
mands the  Theban  troops  on  Beoetia's  plains,  he  has  as- 
sumed his  form,  and  under  that  disguise  relieves  his  pains, 
in  the  possession  of  the  sweetest  pleasures.  The  condition 
of  the  wedded  pair  is  propitious  to  his  flame :  Hymen  has 
united  them  only  a  few  days  since  ;  and  the  still  young 
fire  of  their  tender  love  has  made  Jupiter  have  recourse  to 
this  pretty  artifice.  In  this  case  his  stratagem  has  proved 
successful ;  'but  with  many  a  cherished  object  a  similar 
disguise  would  be  of  no  use,  and  to  assume  the  form  of  a 
husband  is  not  everywhere  a  good  means  of  pleasing. 

Night.  I  admire  Jupiter,  and  I  cannot  conceive  all  the 
disguises  that  come  into  his  head. 

Merc.  In  this  way,  he  wishes  to  have  a  taste  of  all  sorts 
of  conditions ;  and  it  is  not  at  all  acting  as  a  stupid  god. 
From  whatever  point  of  view  he  may  be  regarded  by 
mortals,  I  would  think  very  little  of  him  if  he  never  aban- 


AMPHITRYON.  467 

doned  his  redoubtable  mien,  and  were  always  full  of  affec- 
tation, in  the  highest  part  of  Heaven.  In  my  opinion, 
there  can  be  nothing  more  foolish  than  to  be  always  im- 
prisoned in  one's  grandeur ;  and,  above  all,  a  lofty  rank 
becomes  very  inconvenient  in  the  transports  of  amorous 
ardour.  Jupiter,  who,  no  doubt,  is  a  good  judge  of 
pleasure,  knows  how  to  descend  from  the  height  of  his 
supreme  glory  ;  and,  to  enter  into  every  thing  that  pleases 
him,  he  leaves  his  individuality  behind  him,  and  it  is  no 
longer  Jupiter  who  appears. 

Night.  One  might  yet  overlook  seeing  him  descend 
from  his  sublime  estate  to  enter  into  that  of  men,  to  enjoy 
all  the  transports  of  which  their  hearts  are  capable,  and  to 
accommodate  himself  to  their  jests,  if,  in  the  changes  to 
which  his  disposition  drives  him,  he  would  confine  him- 
self to  human  nature.  But  to  see  Jupiter  as  a  bull,  a  ser- 
pent, a  swan,  or  anything  else,  I  do  not  think  it  nice,  and 
am  not  at  all  astonished  that  it  is  sometimes  talked  about. 

Merc.  Let  all  the  cavillers  talk  :  such  changes  have  a 
charm  which  surpasses  their  understanding.  This  god 
knows  well  enough  what  he  is  about  there  as  elsewhere : 
and  that,  in  the  movements  of  their  tender  passions,  the 
brutes  are  not  so  stupid  as  one  would  think. 

Night.  Let  us  return  to  the  fair  one  whose  favours  he 
enjoys.  If,  by  his  stratagem,  he  finds  that  his  passion  is 
successful,  what  more  can  he  wish,  and  what  can  I  do  ? 

Merc.  That,  to  satisfy  the  desires  of  his  enamoured 
soul,  you  should  slacken  the  pace  of  your  horses,  to  make 
of  so  delightful  a  night,  the  longest  night  of  all ;  that  you 
should  allow  more  time  to  his  transports,  and  that  you 
should  retard  the  break  of  day  which  must  hasten  the  re- 
turn of  him  whose  place  he  takes. 

Night.  This  is  no  doubt  a  nice  employment,  which  the 
great  Jupiter  reserves  for  me  !  And  an  honourable  name 
is  given  to  the  service  required  of  me  ! 

Merc.  You  are  rather  old-fashioned  for  so  young  a  god- 
dess !  Such  an  employment  has  nothing  degrading  except 
among  people  of  low  birth.  When  one  has  the  happiness 
of  being  in  a  lofty  rank,  whatever  is  done  is  always  well 
and  good;  and  things  change  their  names  according  to 
what  one  may  be. 


468  AMPHITRYON.  [act  i. 

Night.  You  know  more  about  such  matters  than  I  do  ; 
and  I  shall  believe  in  your  superior  knowledge,  and  accept 
this  employment. 

Merc.  Now,  now,  Madam  Night,  a  little  gently,  I  pray. 
In  the  world  you  have  the  reputation  of  not  being  so  par- 
ticular. In  a  hundred  different  climates  you  are  made  the 
confidant  of  many  gallant  adventures  :  and,  to  tell  you  my 
mind  plainly,  I  believe  that  we  have  nothing  with  which 
to  reproach  each  other. 

Night.  Let  us  drop  these  bickerings,  and  remain  what 
we  are.  Let  us  not  give  mankind  cause  to  laugh  by  tell- 
ing each  other  the  truth. 

Merc.  Farewell.  I  am  going  yonder  on  this  business, 
promptly  to  doff  the  form  of  Mercury,  to  don  the  figure 
of  Amphitryon's  servant. 

Night.  I  am  going  to  make  a  stay  in  this  hemisphere 
with  my  dark  train. 

Merc.  Good  day,  Night. 

Night.  Farewell,  Mercury.' 

{Mercury  descends  from  his  cloud;  Night  crosses 
the  stage. 


ACT  I 

Scene  I. — Sosia,  alone. 

Who  goes  there?  He?  My  fear  increases  at  every 
step  !  Gentlemen,  I  am  a  friend  to  everyone.  Ah  !  what 
extraordinary  boldness  to  be  abroad  at  such  an  hour  as 
this !  What  a  scurvy  trick,  my  master,  covered  as  he  is 
with  glory,  plays  me  here  !  What !  would  he  have  me  set 
out  in  such  a  dark  night,  if  he  had  any  love  for  his  fellow- 
man  !  Could  he  not  as  well  have  waited  till  daylight,  to 
send  me  to  announce  his  return  and  the  details  of  his 
victory?     To   what  slavery  is   thy  life  subjected,  Sosia! 

'  Moliftre  got  the  primary  idea  of  this  Prologue  from  Plautus'  Amphi- 
tryon (Act  i.,  Scene  i),  where  Mercury  addresses  Night  thus:  "Go  on, 
Night,  as  you've  begun,  and  pay  obedience  to  mi^  father.  In  best  style, 
the  best  of  services  are  you  p>erforming  for  the  best  of  beings ;  in  giving 
this,  you  reap  a  fair  return." 


SCENE  I.]  AMPHITRYON.  469 

Our  lot  is  much  harder  with  the  great  than  with  the  little. 
They  will  have  it  that  everything  in  nature  be  compelled  to 
be  sacrificed  to  them.  Night  and  day,  hail,  wind,  danger, 
heat  cold,  the  moment  they  speak  we  must  fly.  Twenty 
long  years  of  hard  services  avail  us  nothing  with  them. 
The  slightest  whim  draws  down  their  anger  upon  us.  In 
spite  of  all  this,  our  foolish  hearts  cling  to  the  empty  honour 
of  remaining  with  them,  and  will  be  contented  with  the 
false  notion,  which  all  other  people  share,  that  we  are 
happy.*  In  vain,  reason  calls  us  to  retire ;  in  vain  our 
spite  sometimes  consents  to  this ;  their  presence  has  too 
powerful  an  influence  on  our  zeal,  and  the  slightest  favour 
of  a  caressing  look  re-engages  us  more  firmly  than  ever. 
But  at  last,  I  perceive  our  house  through  the  darkness,  and 
my  fear  vanishes.*  I  must  have  some  set  speech  for  my 
mission.  I  owe  to  Alcmena  some  military  sketch  of  the 
great  battle  which  sent  all  our  enemies  to  the  right-about. 
But  how  the  deuce  am  I  to  describe  it,  when  I  was  not 
there?  No  matter,  let  us  speak  of  cut  and  thrust,  as  if 
I  had  been  eye-witness.  How  many  people  tell  of  battles, 
from  which  they  kept  far  enough  away  !  In  order  to  act 
my  part  with  credit,  I  will  rehearse  it  a  little.  This  is 
supposed  to  be  the  room  in  which  I  enter  as  the  bearer 
of  despatches;  and  this  lantern  is  Alcmena,  whom  I  have 
to  address.®  (^He  sets  his  lantern  on  the  ground  and 
addresses  his  speech  to  it).  Madam,  Amphitryon,  my 
master  and  your  husband,  .  .  .  (Good !  that  is  a  nice 
beginning!)  whose  thoughts  are  ever  filled  with  your 
charms,  has  been  pleased  to  choose  me  from  amongst  all 

*  Sosia  expresses  himself  as  a  courtier  of  Louis  XIV.  Plautus"  Sosia 
complains  only  of  the  harsh  condition  of  a  slave,  but  says  nothing  "  of  the 
honour  of  remaining  "  with  the  master. 

6  In  Plautus'  Amphitryon,  Sosia  is  very  much  afraid  of  meeting  some 
one,  and  of  bemg  beaten.  Still,  he  seems  in  no  hurry  to  arrive,  for  he 
utters  a  soliloquy  of  about  two  hundred  lines.  Moliere  makes  Sosia  per- 
ceive the  house,  and  thus  his  fear  vanishes. 

8  The  scene  in  which  Sosia  addresses  the  lantern  is  an  imitation  of  a 
scene  in  the  fifth  fable  of  the  third  night  of  the  Piacevoh  Notti  of  Stra- 
parola;  with  this  difference,  that,  in  the  Italian  tale,  the  servant  who  has 
killed  the  bull  with  the  golden  horns,  in  order  to  give  those  horns  to  his 
mistress,  hangs  his  clothes  upon  a  branch  of  a  tree,  and  then  addresses 
them  in  an  explanatory  speech,  which  he  intends  afterwards  to  deliver  to 
his  master,  who  has  confided  the  bull  to  his  guard. 


47°  AMPHITRYON.  [act  i. 

to  give  you  tidings  of  the  success  of  his  arms,  and 
of  his  desire  to  be  with  you.  "Ah !  really,  my  good 
Sosia,  I  am  heartily  delighted  to  see  you  back  again." 
Madam,  you  do  me  too  much  honour,  and  my  lot  is  to 
be  envied.  (Well  answered  !)  "How  fares  Amphitryon?" 
Madam,  as  a  man  of  courage  should,  whenever  an  occasion 
offers  for  behaving  with  glory.  (Capital !  that  is  well  con- 
ceived !)  "When  will  he,  by  his  charming  return,  satisfy 
my  heart?"  As  quickly  as  he  can,  assuredly,  Madam,  but 
much  less  early  than  his  heart  desires.  (Ah!)  "But  in 
what  state  has  the  war  left  him?  What  says  he?  What  does 
he?  Set  my  heart  at  rest."  He  says  far  less  than  he 
does,  Madam,  and  makes  his  enemies  tremble.  (Plague  ! 
where  do  I  get  all  these  pretty  speeches?)  What  are 
the  rebels  doing?  tell  me,  what  is  their  present  condi- 
tion ?"  They  could  make  no  stand  against  us.  Madam ;  we 
cut  them  to  pieces,  put  their  chief,  Pterelas,'  to  death, 
took  Telebos*  by  storm;  and  the  whole  port  rings  already 
with  our  prowess.  "Ah!  what  success!  ye  gods!  Who 
could  ever  have  thought  it?  Tell  me,  Sosia,  how  it  all  oc- 
curred." Willingly,  Madam;  and  without  boasting. 
I  can  give  you,  very  accurately,  the  details  of  this  victory. 
Imagine,  then.  Madam,  that  Telebos  is  on  this  side. 
(Sosia  marks  the  places  on  his  hand,  or  on  the  ground^. 
It  is  a  city  really  almost  as  large  as  Thebes.  The  river  is, 
as  it  were,  there.  Our  people  encamped  here ;  and  that 
space  here  was  occupied  by  our  enemies.  On  a  height, 
somewhere  thereabout,  was  their  infantry;  and  a  little 
lower  down,  towards  the  right,  their  cavalry.  After 
having  addressed  our  prayers  to  the  gods,  and  issued  every 
order,  the  signal  was  given.  The  enemy,  thinking  to  cut 
out  work  for  us,  divided  their  horse  into  three  platoons; 
but  we  soon  cooled  their  courage,  and  you  shall  see  how. 
There,  is  our  vanguard  eager  to  be  at  work;  there,  stood 
the  archers  of  our  king,  Creon ;  and  here,  was  the  main 
body  of  the  army  {Some  noise  from  within),   which  was 

^  Pterelas  did  not  live  in  the  time  of  Amphitryon,  but  was  the  son  of 
Taphius,  a  son  of  a  niece  of  Alcaeus,  the  father  of  Amphitryon.  Plautns 
and  Molifere  have  made  the  same  mistake. 

8  Telebos  was  the  capital  of  the  island  of  Taphe,  not  far  from  Ithaca,  on 
the  coast  of  Acamania. 


Horace  Yrniel  pinx' 


ikt':/b-:^riT'B:rDm. 


•CXNSU.} 


AKrHn-KYON. 


rl 


about  to  .    .    .  Stay,  the  main  body  of  the  army  is  afraid; 
I  ht-ar  some  noise^  methinlts,* 


Scene  i 


;ry,  Sos 


mhv.L     {Inihefo 
home).   Under  thi 


and   after  aU,   I   i. 

turc,  however,  iei  u»  gt 
lors. 
Merc,   x^'iside).   Unless  you  be  strong 
I  shall  prevent  your  doing  so. 

Sos.  { il  it kout  seeing  Mercury).  This  n; 
inoidinattiy  long.     Judging  by  the  t--— 
the  way,   my   mister   must   have  n 
mornii>g, 'or  lair   !'-■    •■     ■   -   •—  ' 
iiav:;ig  i  iken  too  i:, 

MKkc.  iAsH 
of  the  gods ! 

■nee ;  and   i 
•^sr  his  name  « 


i.«eiceiv'- 
iio  good. 

yVhat  fell 
•  deafen  mo 
<•  voice  grows 
t  him  a  drul> 
;.  (Aside^i 


^  ?     (As 
■izer).     D. 

fellow  JK-^  iiu 


music. 


-'s 

ve 

rb 


by 

•r 


»  Plautus' 


aus  ahd  derailed  ntirrative  of  th«  bal4e; 
6ing  that  they  shAli  hear  (  .wt 


•ied  from  Plautus,  except  Sosia's  reoMik  «boat 


SCBNB 11.]  AMPHITRYON.  473 

Merc.  No,  it  is  only  for  fun,  and  in  answer  to  your 
jokes. 

Sos.  Zounds  !  friend,  how  you  deal  your  blows  about 
without  one's  saying  anything  to  you. 

Merc.  These  are  the  least  of  my  blows ;  my  little  ordi- 
nary boxes  on  the  ear. 

Sos,  Were  I  as  hasty  as  you,  we  should  make  nice  work 
of  it. 

Merc.  All  this  is  nothing  as  yet.  We  shall  see  some- 
thing better  anon  ;  but  to  provide  a  little  interval,  let  us 
continue  our  conversation. 

Sos.  I  give  up  the  game.     (  Wishes  to  go. 

Merc   {Stopping  hint).     Where  are  you  going? 

Sos.   What  does  it  matter  to  you  ? 

Merc.   I  wish  to  know  where  you  are  going. 

Sos.  To  get  that  door  opened  to  me.  Why  do  you  de- 
tain me? 

Merc.  If  you  are  impudent  enough  to  go  only  near  it, 
I  shall  shower  down  a  storm  of  blows  upon  you. 

Sos.  What  !  you  wish,  by  your  threats,  to  prevent  my 
entering  our  own  house  ? 

Merc.   How  !  our  house  ? 

Sos.  Yes,  our  house. 

Merc.  O,  the  wretch!  you  belong  to  that  house,  you 
say? 

Sos.  Indeed  I  do.     Is  not  Amphitryon  the  master  of 

it? 

Merc.  Well!  what  does  that  prove? 

Sos.  I  am  his  servant. 

Merc.  You  ! 

Sos.  I. 

Merc.  His  servant? 

Sos.  Without  a  doubt. 

Merc  The  servant  of  Amphitryon  ? 

Sos.  Of  Amphitryon,  of  him. 

Merc  Your  name  is?  .    .    . 

Sos.  Sosia. 

Merc  Heh!  what? 

Sos.  Sosia. 

Merc  Harkee !  do  you  know  that,  with  my  fist,  I  shall 
knock  you  down  on  the  spot? 


474  AMPHITRYON.  [act  i, 

Sos.  For  what?    What  fury  seizes  you? 

Merc.  Tell  me,  who  made  you  so  rash  as  to  assume  the 
name  of  Sosia? 

Sos.  I,  I  do  not  assume  it;  I  have  had  it  all  my 
life. 

Merc.  O  what  a  horrible  lie,  and  what  extreme  im- 
pudence !     You  dare  to  maintain  that  Sosia  is  your  name ! 

Sos.  Indeed  I  do ;  I  maintain  it,  for  the  very  good 
reason  that  the  gods  have  so  ordained  it  by  their  supreme 
decree,  and  that  it  lies  not  in  my  power  to  say  nay,  and  to 
be  any  other  than  myself. 

Merc.  A  thousand  cudgel- strokes  ought  to  be  the  re- 
ward of  such  effrontery. 

Sos.  {Beaten  by  Mercury).  Justice,  citizens  !  Help !  I 
beseech  you. 

Merc.  How,  you  hang-dog,  you  cry  out ! 

Sos.  You  kill  me  with  a  thousand  blows,  and  you  do 
not  wish  me  to  cry  out? 

Merc.  It  is  thus  that  my  arm  .    .    . 

Sos.  It  is  an  unworthy  action.  You  take  advantage 
of  the  superiority  which  my  want  of  courage  gives  you  over 
me ;  and  that  is  not  fair.  It  is  mere  hectoring  to  wish  to 
profit  by  the  poltroonery  of  those  whom  we  thrash.  To 
beat  a  man  who  we  know  will  not  fight,  is  not  a  generous 
action ;  and  to  show  courage  against  those  who  have  none, 
is  blamable. 

Merc.  Well!  are  you  Sosia  now?  what  say  you? 

Sos.  Your  blows  have  effected  no  metamorphosis  in 
me;  and  all  the  change  that  I  can  find  in  the  case  is  that 
I  am  Sosia  beaten. 

Merc.  {Threatening  Sosia).  Again!  A  hundred  fresh 
blows  for  this  new  impudence. 

Sos.  Pray,  cease  your  blows. 

Merc.  Then  cease  your  insolence. 

Sos.  Anything  you  please ;  I  keep  silence.  The  dispute 
is  too  unequal  between  us. 

Merc.  Are  you  Sosia  still?  say,  wretch? 

Sos.  Alas !  I  am  what  you  please :  dispose  of  my  fate 
entirely  according  to  your  wish ;  your  arm  has  made  you 
master  of  it. 

Merc.  Your  name  was  Sosia,  by  what  you  said? 


SCENK II.]  AMPHITRYON.  475 

Sos.  It  is  true,  until  now  I  thought  the  thing  plain 
enough;  but  your  stick  has  made  me  see  that  I  was  mis- 
taken in  the  matter. 

Merc.  It  is  I  who  am  Sosia,  and  all  Thebes  confesses 
it :  Amphitryon  has  never  had  any  other  than  me. 

Sos.  You,  Sosia? 

Merc.  Yes,  Sosia !  and  if  any  one  plays  tricks  with  him, 
let  him  look  to  himself. 

Sos.  (Aside).  Heaven  !  must  I  thus  renounce  my  own 
self,  and  see  my  name  stolen  from  me  by  an  impostor. 
How  extremely  fortunate  it  is  for  him  that  I  am  a  coward, 
or  else,  'sdeath  !  .    .    . 

Merc.  You  are  murmuring,  I  know  not  what,  between 
your  teeth. 

Sos.  No.  But,  in  the  name  of  the  gods,  give  me  leave 
to  speak  for  one  moment  to  you. 

Merc.  Speak. 

Sos.  But  promise  me,  I  pray,  that  there  shall  be  no 
blows.     Let  us  sign  a  truce. " 

Merc.  Proceed :  go  on,  I  grant  you  that  point. 

Sos.  Who,  tell  me,  put  this  fancy  into  your  head? 
What  good  will  it  do  you  to  take  my  name  away  from  me  ? 
And,  even  were  you  a  demon,  could  you,  in  short,  prevent 
me  from  being  myself,  from  being  Sosia? 

Merc.   (Lifting  his  stick).     How !  Can  you  .    .    . 

Sos.  Ah !  hold ;  we  have  discarded  blows. 

Merc.  What !   hangdog,  impostor,  rascal  !  .    .    . 

Sos.  As  for  names,  call  me  as  many  as  you  like;  these 
are  slight  wounds,  and  I  am  not  angry  at  them. 

Merc.  You  say  you  are  Sosia  ? 

Sos.  Yes.     Some  nonsensical  tale  has  been  .   .    . 

Merc.  Now  then,  I  break  our  truce,  and  take  back  my 
word. 

Sos.  No  matter.  I  cannot  annihilate  myself  for  you, 
and  stand  a  speech  so  very  improbable.  Is  it  in  your 
power  to  be  what  I  am?  and  can  I  cease  to  be  myself? 
Did  anyone  ever  hear  of  such  a  thing  ?  And  can  one 
give  the  lie  to  a  hundred  convincing  proofs?  Do  I  dream? 
Am  I  asleep?    Is  my  mind  disturbed  by  some  powerful 


"  This  dialogue  is  again  followed  from  Plautus. 


476  AMPHITRYON.  [acti. 

transport?  Do  I  not  plainly  feel  that  I  am  awake?  Am 
I  not  in  my  right  senses?  Has  not  my  master,  Amphi- 
tryon, charged  me  to  come  hither  to  Alcmena  his  wife  ? 
Am  I  not  to  extol  his  love  for  her,  and  to  give  an  account 
of  his  deeds  against  our  enemies?  Have  I  not  just  come 
from  the  harbour  ?  Have  I  not  a  lantern  in  my  hand  ? 
Have  I  not  found  you  in  front  of  our  dwelling?  Did  I 
not  talk  to  you  in  a  perfectly  kind  manner  ?  Do  you  not 
take  an  advantage  of  my  cowardice,  to  hinder  me  from 
entering  our  house?  Have  you  not  spent  your  rage  upon 
my  back  ?  Have  you  not  belaboured  me  with  blows  ? 
Ah  !  all  this  is  but  too  real ;  and  would  to  Heaven,  it  were 
less  so !  Cease  therefore  to  insult  a  wretch's  lot ;  and  leave 
me  to  acquit  myself  of  the  calls  of  my  duty. 

Merc.  Stop,  or  the  least  step  brings  down  upon  your 
back  a  thundering  outbreak  of  my  just  wrath.  All  that 
you  have  mentioned  just  now  is  mine,  except  the  blows. 

Sos.  This  lantern  knows  how,  my  heart  full  of  fear,  I 
departed  this  morning  from  the  vessel.  Has  not  Am- 
phitryon sent  me  to  Alcmena,  his  wife,  from  the  camp  ? 

Merc.  You  have  told  a  lie.  It  was  I  whom  Amphitryon 
deputed  to  Alcmena,  and  who,  at  this  moment,  arrives  from 
the  Persian  Port;"  I,  who  come  to  announce  the  valour 
of  his  arm  which  gained  us  a  complete  victory,  and  slew  the 
chief  of  our  enemies.  In  short,  it  is  I  who  assuredly  am 
Sosia,  son  of  Davus,  an  honest  shepherd ;  brother  to  Har- 
page  who  died  in  a  foreign  country;  husband  to  that 
prude  Cleanthis,  whose  temper  drives  me  mad ;  who  has 
received  a  thousand  lashes  at  Thebes,  without  ever  saying 
aught  about  it ;  and  who  was  formerly  publicly  marked 
on  the  back,  for  being  too  honest  a  man.  " 

Sos.  (^Quietly  aside).  He  is  right.  Unless  one  be 
Sosia,  one  cannot  know  all  he  says  ;  and  amidst  the  as- 
tonishment which  seizes  upon  me,  I  begin,  in  my  turn,  to 
believe  him  a  little.     In   fact,  now  that  I  look  at  him,  I 


1*  According  to  Riley,  Plautus  is  here  guilty  of  an  anachronism  ;  for  the 
''  Portus  Persicus,"  which  was  on  the  coast  of  Euboea,  was  so  called  from 
the  Persian  fleet  lying  there  on  the  occasion  of  the  expedition  to  Greece, 
many  ages  after  the  time  of  Amphitryon. 

1*  Among  the  ancients,  marking  with  a  red-hot  iron  upon  the  shoulder 
was  unknown  as  a  public  punishment.  In  Plautus,  Sosia  says,  that  he 
has  been  whipped. 


SCENE  n.]  AMPHITRYON.  477 

perceive  that  he  has  my  figure,  my  face,  my  gestures.  Let 
me  ask  him  some  question,  in  order  to  clear  up  this  mys- 
tery. {Aloud).  What  did  Amphitryon  obtain  for  his 
share  of  all  the  plunder  taken  from  our  enemies  ? 

Merc.  Five  very  large  diamonds,  neatly  set  in  a  clus- 
ter, with  which  their  chief  used  to  adorn  himself  as  a  rare 
piece  of  workmanship.^^ 

Sos.  For  whom  does  he  intend  such  a  rich  present  ? 

Merc.   For  his  wife  ;  and  he  wishes  her  to  wear  them. 

Sos.  But  where  is  it  placed  at  present,  until  it  shall  be 
brought  ? 

Merc.  In  a  casket  sealed  with  the  arms  of  my  master." 

Sos.  {Aside).  He  does  not  tell  a  single  lie  in  any  of 
his  answers ;  and  I  begin  really  to  be  in  doubt  about 
myself.  With  me  he  is  already,  by  sheer  force,  Sosia ; 
and  he  might  perhaps  also  be  he  by  reason.  And  yet 
when  I  touch  myself  and  recollect,  it  seems  to  me  that  I 
am  myself.  Where  shall  I  find  some  trustworthy  light  to 
clear  up  what  I  see  ?  What  I  have  done  alone,  and  what 
nQ  one  has  seen,  cannot  be  known  unless  by  myself.  By 
that  question,  I  must  astonish  him  ;  and  that  is  enough  to 
puzzle  him,  and  we  shall  see.  {Aloud).  When  they  were 
fighting,  what  did  you  do  in  our  tents  j  whither  you  ran 
alone  to  hide  yourself? 

Merc.  From  off  a  ham  .    .    . 

Sos.  {Quietly  aside).     That  is  it ! 

Merc.  Which  I  unearthed,  I  bravely  cut  two  juicy 
slices,  with  whith  I  stuffed  myself  nicely.  And  adding 
thereto  a  wine  of  which  they  are  very  chary,  and  the  sight 
of  which  pleased  me  even  before  I  tasted  it,  I  imbibed 
some  courage  for  our  people  who  were  fighting. 

Sos.  {Softly  aside).  This  matchless  proof  concludes 
well  in  his  favour:  and,  unless  he  were  in  the  bottle, 
nothing  is  to  be  said   against  it.'*  {Aloud).      From  the 

16  In  Plautus,  Amphitryon  receives  a  "  golden  goblet "  for  his  share, 
which  has  become  almost  historical,  because  historians  have  mentioned  it, 
and  described  its  form. 

"  Arms  were  unknown  to  the  ancients,  for  heraldry  came  in  only  with 
chivalry.  But  the  ancients  used  signet  rings  upon  which  was  engraved 
some  peculiar  sign. 

18  This  is  also  taken  from  Plautus ;  only  Mercury  speaks  there  of  "  an 
earthen  pot,"  and  not  of  a  bottle. 


478  AMPHITRYON.  [act  t 

proofs  laid  before  me,  I  cannot  deny  that  you  are  Sosia, 
and  I  acknowledge  it.  But,  if  you  are  he,  tell  me  whom 
you  wish  me  to  be  ;  for  after  all  I  must  be  somebody. 

Merc.  When  I  shall  be  no  longer  Sosia,  you  may  be 
he,  I  agree  to  that ;  but  while  I  am  he,  it  will  be  your 
death  to  take  such  a  fancy  into  your  head. 

Sos.  All  this  confusion  sets  my  wit  on  edge,  and  reason 
is  contrary  to  what  one  sees.  But  there  must  be  an  end 
to  this  somehow  or  other ;  and  the  shortest  way  for  me  is 
to  go  in  there. 

Merc.  Ah  !  you  hangdog,  you,  with  another  taste  of  the 
stick. 

Sos.  (^Beaten  by  Mercury).  Ah  !  what  is  this  ?  Great 
gods  !  he  strikes  harder  still ;  and  my  back  will  be  sore 
for  a  month  to  come.  Let  me  leave  this  devil  of  a  fellow, 
and  return  to  the  harbour.  O  just  Heavens,  I  have  made 
a  pretty  embassy  ! 

Merc.  {Alone).  At  last  I  have  made  him  fly ;  and,  by 
this  treatment,  he  has  got  his  punishment  for  many  of  his 
deeds.  But  I  perceive  Jupiter,  who,  very  politely,  escorts 
the  amorous  Alcmena. 

Scene  III. — Jupiter  under  the  form  of  Amphitryon,  Alc- 
mena, Cleanthis,  Mercury. 

JuP.  Forbid,  dear  Alcmena,  the  torch-bearers  to  ap- 
proach. They  afford  me  delight  in  beholding  you;  but 
might  betray  my  coming  hither,  which  had  best  remain 
concealed.  My  love,  restrained  by  all  these  weighty 
cares  with  which  the  glory  of  our  arms  held  me  fettered, 
has  stolen  the  moments  which  it  has  just  given  to  your 
charms  from  the  duties  of  my  post.  This  theft,  which  my 
heart  devoted  to  your  beauty,  might  be  blamed  by  the 
public  voice ;  and  the  only  witness  whom  I  wish,  is  she 
who  can  thank  me  for  it. 

Alc.  I  take  great  interest,  Amphitryon,  in  the  glory 
which  your  illustrious  exploits  shed  upon  you;  and  the 
fame  of  your  victory  moves  my  heart  in  its  most  sensible 
part.  But  when  I  perceive  that  this  fatal  honour  keeps 
away  from  me  him  whom  I  love,  I  cannot  forbear,  in  my 
excessive  tenderness,  to  bear  it  some  ill-will,  and  even  to 
cavil  at  the  supreme  order  which  makes  you  the  Thebans' 


SCENE  III.]  AMPHITRYON.  475I 

general.  It  is  sweet  after  a  victory  to  see  the  glory  of  one 
whom  we  love ;  but  among  the  perils  inseparable  from 
this  glory,  a  fatal  stroke,  alas  !  may  quickly  come.  With 
how  many  fears  is  our  heart  seized  at  the  rumour  of  the 
slightest  skirmish  !  In  the  horrors  of  such  a  thought,  can 
we  ever  see  aught  with  which  to  console  ourselves  for  the 
threatened  blow  ?  And  with  whatever  laurels  the  con- 
queror may  be  crowned,  whatever  share  one  may  have  in 
that  high  honour,  is  it  worth  that  which  it  costs  to  a 
tender  heart,  which  trembles  every  moment  for  him  whom 
it  loves  ?  ^* 

Jup.  I  see  nothing  in  you  but  what  increases  my  pas- 
sion ;  everything  proves  to  my  eyes  a  thoroughly  ena- 
moured heart ;  and  it  is,  I  own  it,  a  charming  thing,  to 
find  so  much  love  in  a  beloved  object.  But,  if  I  may 
dare  to  say  so,  one  scruple  troubles  me  in  the  tender  sen- 
timents which  you  show  to  me  ;  and  in  order  to  relish 
them  the  more,  my  passion,  dear  Alcmena,  would  owe 
nothing  to  your  duty.  Let  the  favours,  which  I  receive 
from  you,  be  due  to  your  love,  and  to  my  person  oijly ; 
and  let  not  my  position  as  your  husband  be  the  motive  for 
their  bestowal. 

Alc.  It  is  from  that  name,  however,  that  the  ardour 
which  devours  me  holds  its  right  to  show  itself;  and  I  do 
not  understand  this  new  scruple  with  which  your  passion 
is  perplexed. 

Jup.  Ah !  the  love  and  tenderness  which  I  have  for  yon 
exceeds  also  that  of  a  husband  ;  and  in  those  sweet  mo- 
ments you  are  not  aware  of  its  delicacy  :  you  do  not 
understand  that  an  enamoured  heart  is  studiously  intent 
upon  a  hundred  trifles,  and  worries  itself  about  the  manner 


19  The  Alcmena  of  Plautus  utters  sentiments  more  worthy  of  a  R«man 
matron.  This  is  what  she  says  of  her  husband  (Act  u.,  Scene  2) :  '  This, 
at  least,  makes  me  happy,  that  he  has  conquered  the  foe,  and  has  returned 
home  laden  with  glory.  Let  him  be  absent,  if  only  with  fame  acquired 
he  betakes  himself  home.  I  shall  bear  and  eve^r  endure  his  absence  with 
mind  resolved  and  steadfast ;  if  only  this  reward  is  granted  me.  that  my 
husband  shall  be  hailed  the  conqueror  in  the  warfare,  sufficient  for  myse it 
will  I  deem  it.  Valour  is  the  best  reward ;  valour  assuredly  surpasses  all 
things:  liberty,  safety,  life,  property  and  parents,  country  too,  and  chil- 
dren by  it  are  defended  and  preserved.  Valour  comprises  everything  lu 
itself-  all  blessings  attend  him  in  whose  possession  is  valour. 


48o  AMPHITRYON.  [act  i. 

of  being  happy.  In  me,  fair  and  charming  Alcmena,  you 
behold  a  lover  and  a  husband ;  but,  to  speak  frankly,  it  is 
the  lover  only  I  care  for;  and  I  feel  that,  when  near  you, 
the  husband  checks  him.  This  lover,  jealous  of  your  affec- 
tion to  the  last  degree,  wishes  your  love  to  abandon  itself 
to  him  alone  J  and  his  passion  desires  nothing  that  the 
husband  gives  him.  From  the  fountain-head,  he  wishes  to 
obtain  your  love,  and  to  owe  nothing  to  the  bonds  of 
wedlock ;  nothing  to  a  wearying  duty  which  makes  the 
heart  ache,  and  by  which  the  sweetness  of  the  most  valued 
favours  is  daily  poisoned.  In  the  scruples,  in  short,  by 
which  he  is  tormented,  he  wishes,  in  order  to  satisfy  his 
delicacy,  that  you  separate  himself  from  that  which  is 
offensive  to  him,  and  that  the  husband  be  only  for  your 
virtue ;  and  that  the  lover  shall  have  all  the  affection  and 
tenderness  of  your  heart,  which  is  all  gentleness. 

Alc.  Really,  Amphitryon,  you  must  be  jesting,  to  talk 
in  this  manner ;  and  I  should  be  afraid,  that  if  anyone 
heard  you,  you  would  be  thought  out  of  your  right  senses. 

Jup.  There  is  more  sense  in  this  discourse,  Alcmena, 
than  you  think.  But  a  longer  stay  would  render  me  too 
guilty,  and  the  time  presses  for  my  return  to  the  port. 
Farewell.  The  harsh  dictates  of  my  duty  tear  me  away 
from  you  for  a  while ;  but,  fair  Alcmena,  try  at  least,  I 
pray  you,  when  you  see  the  husband,  to  recollect  the 
lover. 

Alc.  I  do  not  separate  that  which  the  Gods  unite,  and 
husband  and  lover  are  very  precious  to  me. 

Scene  IV. — Cleanthis,  Mercury. 

Cle.  {Aside).  O  Heaven  !  how  sweet  are  the  caresses 
of  an  ardently  beloved  husband  !  and  how  far  is  my  wretch 
of  a  husband  from  all  this  tenderness. 

Merc.  {Aside).  I  must  inform  Night  that  she  has  but 
to  furl  all  her  sails,  and  the  sun  may  now  arise  from  his 
bed  to  put  out  the  stars. 

Cle.  {Stopping  Mercury).  What !  Is  it  thus  that  you 
leave  me  ? 

Merc.  And  how  then  ?  Would  you  wish  me  not  to 
acquit  myself  of  my  duty,  and  follow  Amphitryon's  foot- 
steps ? 


SCBNK  IV.]  AMPHITRYON.  48 1 

Cle;.  But  to  separate  from  me  in  this  abrupt  fashion, 
you  wretch. 

Merc.  A  fine  subject  to  be  angry  about !  We  have  still 
so  long  to  remain  together  ! 

Cle.  But  what !  to  go  in  such  a  brutal  manner,  without 
saying  a  single  kind  word  to  cheer  me  up. 

Merc.  Where  the  deuce  would  you  have  my  brains 
fetch  you  this  silly  stuff  from  ?  Fifteen  years  of  marriage 
exhaust  one's  discourse  ;  and  we  have  said  all  that  we  had 
to  say  to  each  other  long  ago. 

Cle.  Look  at  Amphitryon,  you  wretch  ;  see  how  he 
shows  his  ardour  for  Alcmena :  and  after  that,  blush  for 
the  little  passion  that  you  display  towards  your  wife. 

Merc.  Eh  !  good  gracious,  Cleanthis,  they  are  still 
lovers.  There  comes  a  certain  age  when  all  this  is  done 
with  ;  and  what  in  those  beginnings  suits  them  well 
enough,  would  look  very  awkward  in  us,  old  married 
folks.  It  would  be  a  pretty  sight  to  see  us,  face  to  face, 
saying  sweet  things  to  each  other. 

Cle.  What  !  perfidious  wretch,  am  I  past  hoping  that  a 
heart  might  sigh  for  me  ? 

Merc.  No,  I  should  be  sorry  to  say  so ;  but  I  have  too 
grey  a  beard  to  dare  to  sigh,  and  I  should  make  you  die 
with  laughter. 

Cle.  You  hangdog,  do  you  deserve  the  signal  luck  of 
having  a  virtuous  woman  like  me  for  your  wife? 

Merc.  Great  Heavens  !  if  anything  you  are  too  vir- 
tuous ;  all  this  merit  is  of  little  value  to  me.  Be  a  little 
less  an  honest  woman,  and  do  not  pester  my  brains  so  much. 

Cle.  How  !  do  you  find  fault  with  me  for  being  too 
virtuous  ? 

Merc.  A  woman's  sweet  temper  is  her  chief  charm ; 
and  your  virtue  makes  such  a  clamour  that  it  never  ceases 
deafening  me. 

Cle.  You  wish  for  a  heart  full  of  feigned  tenderness, 
for  those  women  with  the  laudable  and  pretty  talent  of 
knowing  how  to  smother  their  husbands  with  caresses  in 
order  to  make  them  swallow  the  existence  of  a  gallant. 

Merc.  Upon  my  word,  shall  I  tell  you  candidly?  An 
ideal  evil  affects  only  fools;  and  I  would  take  for  my 
device:   "  Less  honour  and  more  quietness." 

VOL.  II.  2F 


482  AMPHITRYON.  [act  ii. 

Cle.  What !  would  you  endure,  without  repugnance, 
that  I  should  love  a  gallant  without  any  shame  ? 

Merc.  Yes,  if  I  were  no  longer  pestered  with  your 
scolding,  and  if  I  could  see  you  change  your  temper  and 
your  way.  I  would  sooner  have  a  convenient  vice,  than  a 
worrying  virtue.  Farewell,  Cleanthis,  my  dear  soul;  I 
must  follow  Amphitryon. 

Cle.  (  Uone).  Why  has  not  my  heart  sufficient  resolu- 
tion to  punish  this  infamous  wretch  !  Ah,  how  it  maddens 
me,  in  this  instance,  to  be  an  honest  woman  ! 


ACT.  II. 
Scene  I. — Amphitryon,  Sosia. 

Amph.  Come  here,  you  gallows-bird,  come  here.  Do 
you  know,  Master  Scoundrel,  that  your  talk  is  enough  for 
me  to  knock  you  down,  and  that  my  anger  only  waits  for 
a  stick  to  beat  you  as  I  wish  ? 

Sos.  If  you  take  it  in  that  strain.  Sir,  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say;  and  you  will  be  always  in  the  right. 

Amph.  What,  you  wretch  !  you  wish  to  foist  upon  me  as 
truths  stories  which  I  know  to  be  impossibly  extravagant  ? 

Sos.  No  :  I  am  the  servant,  and  you  are  the  master ; 
it  shall  be  just  as  you  wish  it.  Sir. 

Amph.  Come,  I  will  suppress  the  anger  that  is  burning 
within  me,  and  listen  at  length  to  the  details  of  your 
mission.  I  must  clear  up  this  confusion  before  seeing  my 
wife.  Collect  yourself,  consider  well  within  yourself,  and 
answer  word  for  word  to  each  question. 

Sos.  But  for  fear  of  making  a  mistake,  tell  me  before- 
hand, if  you  please,  in  what  manner  you  wish  this  matter 
explained.  Shall  I  speak,  Sir,  according  to  my  conscience, 
or  in  the  manner  usually  employed  when  addressing  the 
great  ?     Must  I  tell  the  truth,  or  am  I  to  be  complaisant  ? 

Amph.  No  ;  I  shall  only  compel  you  to  give  me  a  very 
straightforward  account. 

Sos.  Very  well.  That  is  sufficient,  leave  it  to  me ;  you 
have  only  to  question  rae. 

Amph.  Upon  the  order  which  I  lately  gave  you  .    .   , 


SCENE  I.]  AMPHITRYON.  483 

Sos.  I  set  out,  the  skies  veiled  with  a  black  crape, 
swearing  strongly  against  you  under  this  vexatious  mar- 
tyrdom, and  cursing  twenty  times  the  order  of  which  you 
speak. 

Amph.  How  so,  you  scoundrel ! 

Sos.  Sir,  you  have  only  to  say  the  word,  and  I  shall  tell 
lies,  if  you  wish. 

Amph.  That  is  how  a  servant  shows  his  zeal  for  us!  No 
matter.     What  happened  to  you  on  the  road  ? 

Sos.  To  have  a  mortal  fright  at  the  slightest  object 
that  I  saw. 

Amph.  Poltroon  ! 

Sos.  Nature  has  her  whims  in  forming  us ;  she  bestows 
on  us  various  inclinations ;  some  find  a  thousand  delights 
in  exposing  themselves;  I  find  them  in  keeping  myself 
safe. 

Amph    When  you  reached  the  house  .    .    . 

Sos.  I  wished  to  rehearse  a  little  before  the  door,  in 
what  strain  and  in  what  manner  I  would  give  a  glorious 
account  of  the  battle. 

Amph.  What  then? 

Sos.  Some  one  came  to  disturb  and  embarrass  me. 

Amph.  Who? 

Sos.  Sosia;  another  I,  jealous  of  your  orders,  whom 
you  sent  from  the  port  to  Alcraena,  and  who  has  as  full 
knowledge  of  our  secrets  as  I  who  speak  to  you. 

Amph.  What  tales ! 

Sos.  No,  Sir,  it  is  the  plain  truth :  this  I,  sooner  than 
I,  found  himself  at  our  house;  and  I  swear  to  you,  Sir, 
that  I  was  there  before  I  had  arrived. 

Amph.  Whence  proceeds,  I  pray  you,  this  confounded 
nonsense?  Is  it  a  dream?  is  it  drunkenness?  aberration 
of  mind,  or  a  bad  joke? 

Sos.  No,  it  is  the  thing  as  it  is,  and  not  at  all  an  idle 
tale.  I  am  a  man  of  honour,  I  give  you  my  word !  and 
you  may  believe  it,  if  you  please.  I  tell  you  that,  believing 
to  be  but  one  Sosia,  I  found  myself  two  at  our  house ;  and 
that  of  these  two  I's,  jealous  of  each  other,  one  is  at  home, 
and  the  other  is  with  you ;  that  the  I  whom  you  see  here, 
tired  to  death,  found  the  other  I  fresh,  jovial,  and  active, 
and  having  no  anxiety  but  to  fight  and  break  bones. 


4S4  AMPHITRYON.  [act  n. 

Amph.  I  must  be,  I  confess,  of  a  temper  very  staid,  very- 
calm,  and  very  gentle,  to  allow  a  servant  to  entertain  me 
with  such  nonsense ! 

Sos.  If  you  put  yourself  in  a  passion,  no  more  conference 
between  us ;  you  know  all  is  over  at  once. 

Amph.  No,  I  will  listen  to  you  without  excitement ;  I 
promised  it.  But  tell  me  in  sober  conscience,  is  there  any 
shadow  of  probability  in  this  new  mystery  which  you  have 
just  been  telling  me? 

Sos.  No ;  you  are  right,  and  the  affair  must  appear  to 
everyone  past  belief.  It  is  an  incomprehensible  fact,  an 
extravagant,  ridiculous,  irksome  tale :  it  shocks  common 
sense ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  a  fact. 

Amph.  How  can  a  man  believe  it,  unless  he  be  bereft 
of  his  senses? 

Sos.  I  did  not  believe  it  myself  without  the  utmost 
difficulty.  I  thought  myself  touched  in  my  mind  to  believe 
myself  two,  and  for  a  long  time  I  treated  this  other  self 
as  an  impostor:  but  he  forced  me  at  last  to  recognise 
myself;  I  saw  that  it  was  I,  without  the  least  stratagem; 
from  head  to  foot  he  is  exactly  like  me — handsome,  a  noble 
mien,  well  favoured,  charming  manners;  in  short,  two 
drops  of  milk  are  not  more  alike;  and  were  it  not  that  his 
hands  are  somewhat  too  weighty,  I  should  be  perfectly 
satisfied  about  it. 

Amph.  With  how  much  patience  I  must  arm  myself! 
But  after  all,  did  you  not  go  into  the  house? 

Sos.  That  is  good,  go  in  !  He  !  In  what  way  ?  Did  I 
ever  wish  to  listen  to  reason?  and  did  I  not  forbid  myself 
to  enter  our  door? 

Amph.  How? 

Sos.  With  a  stick,  of  which  my  back  feels  still  the 
smarting  pain. 

Amph.  You  have  been  beaten? 

Sos.  Indeed  I  have. 

Amph.  And  by  whom  ? 

Sos.  By  myself. 

Amph.  You,  beat  yourself? 

Sos.  Yes,  I ;  not  the  I  that  is  here,  but  the  I  from  the 
house,  who  strikes  like  four. 

Amph.  Heaven  confound  you  for  talking  to  me  thus ! 


SCBNE  I.]  AMPHITRYON.  485 

Sos.  I  am  not  joking :  the  I  whom  I  met  just  now  has 
great  advantages  over  the  I  who  is  speaking  to  you. 
He  has  a  strong  arm  and  a  lofty  courage;  I  have  had 
proofs  of  it ;  and  •  this  devil  of  an  I  has  thrashed  me 
properly;  he  is  a  fellow  who  does  impossible  things. 

Amph.  Let  us  have  done.     Have  you  seen  my  wife? 

Sos.  No. 

Amph.  Why  not? 

Sos.  For  a  sufficiently  strong  reason. 

Amph.  Who  hindered  you,  rascal?    Explain  yourself. 

Sos.  Must  I  repeat  the  same  thing  twenty  times  to 
you?  I,  I  tell  you,  this  I  stronger  than  I;  this  I  who, by 
force,  took  possession  of  the  door;  this  I  who  made  me 
decamp ;  this  I  who  wishes  to  be  the  only  I ;  this  I  jealous 
of  myself;  this  valiant  I,  whose  anger  showed  itself  to  this 
cowardly  I;  in  short,  this  I  who  is  at  home;  this  I  who 
has  shown  himself  my  master;  this  I  who  has  racked  me 
with  blows.'" 

Amph.  His  brain  must  be  disturbed  by  having  had  too 
much  drink  this  morning. 

Sos.  May  I  be  hanged  if  I  have  had  anything  but 
water !     You  may  believe  me  on  my  oath. 

Amph.  Then  your  senses  must  have  been  asleep,  and 
some  bewildering  dream  has  shown  you  all  these  confused 
fancies  which  you  foist  upon  me  for  truths. 

Sos.  As  little  as  the  other.  I  have  not  been  asleep, 
and  do  not  even  feel  inclined  for  it.  I  am  speaking  to  you 
wide-awake;  I  was  quite  wide-awake  this  morning,  upon 
my  life,  and  quite  wide-awake  was  also  the  other  Sosia, 
when  he  belaboured  me  so  well. 

Amph.  Follow  me;  I  command  you  to  be  silent:  You 
have  wearied  my  mind  enough;  and  I  must  be  the  veriest 
fool  to  have  the  patience  to  listen  to  the  nonsense  which  a 
servant  utters. 

Sos.  {Aside).  Every  discourse  is  nonsense  coming  from 
an  obscure  fellow.  If  some  great  man  were  to  say  the 
same  things,  they  would  be  exquisite  words. 


M  In  Plautus,  Sosia,  when  interrogated  by  Amphitryon,  who  has  been 
beating  him,  replies  also,  "  I  myself,  who  am  now  at  home,  beat  me  my- 
self." 


486  AMPHITRYON.  [act  ii. 

Amph.  Let  us  go  in  without  waiting  any  longer.  But 
here  comes  Alcmena  in  all  her  charms.  Doubtless  she 
does  not  expect  me  at  this  moment,  and  my  arrival  will 
surprise  her. 

Scene  II. — Alcmena,  Amphitryon,  Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Alc.  {Without  seeing  Amphitryon).  Come,  Cleanthis,  let 
us  approach  the  gods,  and  offer  up  our  homages  for  my 
husband,  and  render  them  thanks  for  the  glorious  success, 
of  which  Thebes,  by  his  arm,  reaps  the  advantage.  {Per- 
ceiving Amphitryon).    O  ye  gods! 

Amph.  Heaven  grant  that  victorious  Amphitryon  may  be 
once  more  met  with  pleasure  by  his  wife !  And  that  this 
day  may  be  propitious  to  my  passion,  and  restore  you  to 
me  with  the  same  affection  !  May  I  find  as  much  fondness 
as  my  heart  brings  back  to  you ! 

Alc.  What !  returned  so  soon  ? 

Amph.  Truly,  this  is,  in  this  instance,  to  give  me  but  a 
sorry  proof  of  your  affection :  and  this,  "What!  returned 
so  soon,"  is  hardly  the  language  on  such  an  occasion  of  a 
heart  truly  inflamed  with  love.  I  presumed  to  flatter  my- 
self that  I  had  stayed  away  from  you  too  long.  The  ex- 
pectation of  an  ardently  longed  for  return  invests  each 
moment  with  excessive  length;  and  the  absence  of  what 
we  love,  however  short,  is  always  too  long. 

Alc.  I  do  not  see  .    .    . 

Amph.  No,  Alcmena,  we  measure  the  time  in  such  cases 
by  our  own  impatience;  and  you  count  the  moments  of 
absence  as  one  who  does  not  love.  When  we  really  love, 
the  least  separation  kills  us;  and  the  one  whom  we  delight 
to  see  never  comes  back  too  soon.  I  confess  that  my  fond 
affection  has  reason  to  complain  at  your  reception ;  and  I 
expected  different  transports  of  joy  and  tenderness  from 
your  heart. 

Alc.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  on  what  you  found 
the  words  which  I  hear  you  speak ;  and  if  you  complain 
of  me,  I  do  not  know  in  good  truth  what  would  needs 
satisfy  you.  It  seems  to  me  that  last  night,  at  your  happy 
return,  I  showed  a  sufficiently  tender  joy,  and  repaid  your 
proofs  of  affection  by  everything  which  you  had  reason  to 
expect  from  my  love. 


SCKNB  n.]  AMPHITRYON.  487 

Amph.  How? 

Alc.  Did  I  not  show  plainly  enough  the  sudden  ecsta- 
cies  of  a  perfect  joy  !  And  can  a  heart's  transports  be 
better  expressed  at  the  return  of  a  husband  who  is  tender- 
ly loved  ? 

Amph.  What  is  it  you  tell  me  ? 

Alc.  That  even  your  affection  showed  an  incredible  joy 
at  my  reception  ;  and  that,  having  left  me  at  the  break 
of  day,  I  do  not  see  that  my  surprise  at  this  sudden  return 
is  so  much  to  blame. 

Amph.  Has  some  dream  last  night,  Alcmena,  anticipated 
in  your  fancy  the  reality  of  my  return,  which  I  hastened ; 
and  having,  perhaps,  used  me  kindly  in  your  sleep,  does 
your  heart  imagine  my  love  sufficiently  repaid? 

Alc.  Has  some  disease  in  your  mind,  Amphitryon,  by 
its  malignity,  obscured  the  truth  of  last  night's  return  ? 
and  as  to  the  tender  welcome  I  gave  you,  does  your  heart 
pretend  to  rob  me  of  all  my  honest  affection  ? 

Amph.  Methinks  this  disease  with  which  you  entertain 
me  is  somewhat  strange. 

Alc.  It  is  the  only  thing  one  can  give  in  exchange  for 
the  dream  of  which  you  talk  to  me. 

Amph.  Unless  by  a  dream,  one  can  certainly  not  excuse 
what  you  tell  me  now. 

Alc.  Unless  by  a  disease  which  troubles  your  mind, 
one  cannot  justify  what  I  hear  from  you. 

Amph.  Let  us  have  done  with  this  disease  for  a  moment, 
Alcmena. 

Alc.  Let  us  have  done  with  this  dream  for  a  moment, 
Amphitryon. 

Amph.  As  to  the  subject  in  question,  the  jest  may  be 
carried  too  far. 

Alc.  Undoubtedly  ;  and,  as  a  sure  proof  of  it,  I  begin 
to  feel  somewhat  moved. 

Amph.  It  is  in  this  way  then  that  you  wish  to  try 
to  make  amends  for  the  welcome  of  which  I  com- 
plained ? 

Alc.  And  you  wish  to  try  to  divert  yourself  by  this 

feint? 

Amph.  For  Heaven's  sake !  let  us  cease  this,  I  pray 
you,  Alcmena,  and  let  us  talk  seriously. 


488  AMPHITRYON.  [act  ii. 

Alc.  It  is  carrying  the  jest  too  far,  Amphitryon ;  let 
us  end  this  raillery. 

Amph.  What !  dare  you  maintain  to  my  face  that  I  was 
seen  at  this  spot  before  this  hour  ? 

Alc.  What !  have  you  the  assurance  to  deny  that  you 
came  hither  yesterday  towards  evening  ? 

Amph.  I !  I  came  yesterday  ? 

Alc.  Undoubtedly  ;  and,  just  before  the  break  of  day, 
you  went  away  again. 

Amph.  {Aside).  Heavens !  was  ever  such  a  debate  as 
this  heard  of?  And  who  would  not  be  astonished  at  all 
this  ?     Sosia ! 

Sos.  She  has  need  of  half-a-dozen  grains  of  hellebore, 
Sir ;  her  brain  is  turned. 

Amph.  Alcmena,  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods,  this  dis- 
course will  have  strange  consequences !  Recollect  yourself 
a  little  better,  and  reflect  upon  what  you  say. 

Alc.  I  am  indeed  seriously  reflecting ;  and  all  the 
inmates  of  the  house  witnessed  your  arrival.  I  do  not  know 
what  motive  makes  you  act  thus;  but  if  the  thing  had 
need  of  proof,  if  it  were  true  that  one  could  not  recollect 
such  a  thing,  from  whom,  but  yourself,  could  I  hold  the 
news  of  the  latest  of  all  your  battles,  and  the  five  diamonds 
worn  by  Pterelas,  plunged  into  eternal  night  by  the  force 
of  your  arm  ?     What  surer  proof  could  one  wish  ? 

Amph.  What?  have  I  already  given  you  the  chister  of 
diamonds  which  I  had  for  my  share,  and  which  I  intended 
for  you  ? 

Alc.  Assuredly  it  is  not  difficult  to  convince  you  thor- 
oughly of  it. 

Amph.  And  how? 

Alc.  {Pointing  to  the  cluster  of  diamonds  at  her  girdle). 
Here  it  is. 

Amph.   Sosia ! 

Sos.  {Taking  a  casket  from  his  pocket).  She  is  jesting, 
and  I  have  it  here.     The  feint  is  useless,  Sir. 

Amph.  {Examining  the  casket).  The  seal  is  unbroken  ? 

Alc.  {Presenting  the  diamonds  to  Amphitryon).  Is  it  an 
illusion?  There.  Will  you  think  this  proof  strong 
enough  ? 

Amph.  0  Heaven  !     O  just  Heaven  ! 


SCBNB  II.]  AMPHITRYON.  489 

Alc.  Come,  Amphitryon,  you  are  joking  with  me  by 
acting  in  this  way;  and  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it. 

Amph.   Break  this  seal  quickly. 

Sos.  {Having  opened  the  casket).  Upon  my  word,  it  is 
empty.  It  must  have  been  abstracted  by  witchcraft,  or  else 
it  must  have  come  by  itself,  without  a  guide,  to  her  whom 
it  knew  that  it  was  intended  to  adorn. 

Amph.  {Aside).  Ye  gods,  whose  power  directs  all  things, 
what  is  this  adventure,  and  what  can  I  augur  from  it  at 
which  my  passion  startles  not  ? 

Sos.  {To  Amphitryon).  If  she  speaks  the  truth,  we  share 
the  same  fate,  and  like  me.  Sir,  you  are  double.  ^^ 

Amph.  Hold  your  tongue. 

Alc.  What  is  there  to  be  so  much  surprised  at?  and 
whence  this  great  emotion  ? 

Amph.  {Aside).  O  Heaven!  what  strange  confusion  !  I 
see  supernatural  incidents,  and  my  honour  fears  an  adven- 
ture which  my  senses  do  not  understand. 

Alc.  Do  you  still  think  to  deny  your  sudden  return, 
when  you  have  so  sensible  a  proof  of  it  ? 

Amph.  No  ;  but  be  so  kind,  if  it  be  possible,  to  relate  to 
me  what  happened  at  this  return? 

Alc.  Since  you  ask  an  account  of  the  matter,  you  still 
wish  to  insinuate  that  it  was  not  you  ? 

Amph.  Pray,  pardon  me ;  but  I  have  a  certain  reason  for 
asking  you  to  relate  it. 

Alc.  Have  the  important  affairs  which  may  occupy 
your  mind,  made  you  so  soon  lose  the  remembrance  of  it  ? 

Amph.  Perhaps  so  :  but,  in  short,  you  would  oblige  me 
by  telling  me  the  whole  story. 

Alc.  The  story  is  not  long.  I  advanced  towards  you 
full  of  fond  surprise  ;  I  embraced  you  tenderly,  and  more 
than  once  testified  my  joy. 

Amph.  {Aside).  Ah !  I  could  have  done  without  so 
sweet  a  welcome. 

Alc.  You  first  made  me  this  valuable  present,  destined 
for  me  from  the  conquered  plunder.   Your  heart  vehemently 


'1  In  Plautus  (Act  ii.,  Scene  2)  Sosia  savs:  "You  have  brousrht  forth 
another  Amphitryon,  I  have  brought  forth  another  Sosia ;  now  if  the 
goblet  has  brought  forth  a  goblet,  we  have  all  produced  our  doubles." 


490  AMPHITRYON.  [act  n. 

unfolded  to  me  all  the  fire  of  your  passion,  and  the  carking 
cares  which  had  kept  it  enchained  in  the  joy  of  seeing  me 
again,  the  pangs,  of  absence,  all  the  trouble  caused  by 
your  impatience  to  return  ;  and  never,  on  similar  occasions, 
did  your  love  seem  to  me  so  tender  and  so  passionate. 

Amph.  {Aside).  Can  one  be  more  exquisitely  tortured 
to  death ! 

Alc.  As  you  may  well  believe,  all  these  transports,  all 
this  tenderness  did  not  displease  me;  and  if  I  must  confess 
it,  my  heart,  Amphitryon,  found  a  thousand  charms  in 
them. 

Amph.  What  then,  pray? 

Alc.  We  interrupted  each  other  with  a  thousand  fond 
inquiries.  The  repast  was  served.  We  supped  by  our- 
selves ;  and  the  supper  over,  we  retired  to  bed. 

Amph.  Together? 

Alc.  Assuredly.     What  a  question  is  that? 

Amph.  (Aside).  Ah ;  this  is  the  most  cruel  blow  of  all, 
and  of  which  my  jealous  passion  trembles  to  assure  it- 
self. 

Alc.  Whence  comes,  at  this  word,  so  deep  a  blush? 
Have  I  done  any  harm  in  sleeping  with  you  ? 

Amph.  No,  to  my  great  grief,  it  was  not  I;  and  whoso- 
ever says  that  I  came  hither  yesterday,  tells,  of  all  false- 
hoods, the  most  horrible. 

Alc.  Amphitryon ! 

Amph.  Perfidious  woman  ! 

Alc.  Ah  !  what  outburst  is  this ! 

Amph.  No,  no,  no  more  fondness,  no  more  respect :  this 
misfortune  puts  an  end  to  all  my  firmness ;  and  my  heart 
at  this  fatal  moment,  breathes  only  fury  and  revenge. 

Alc.  And  on  whom  would  you  be  revenged  ?  and  what 
want  of  faith  makes  you  treat  me  now  as  a  criminal  ? 

Amph.  I  know  not,  but  it  was  not  I;  and  this  is  a 
despair  which  renders  me  capable  of  anything. 

Alc.  Away,  unworthy  husband,  the  fact  speaks  for 
itself,  and  the  imposture  is  frightful.  This  is  taking  too 
great  an  advantage  of  me,  and  it  is  too  much  to  condemn 
me  for  faithlessness.  If,  in  this  confused  outburst,  you  are 
seeking  a  pretext  for  breaking  the  nuptial  bonds  which 
hold  me  enchained  to  you,  all  these  excuses  are  superfluous, 


SCENE  in.]  AMPHITRYON.  49! 

for  I  am  fully  determined  that  this  very  day  all  our  bonds 
shall  be  dissolved. ^^ 

Amph.  After  the  disgraceful  insult,  which  has  been  re- 
vealed to  me,  it  is  what,  no  doubt,  you  should  prepare  for  : 
it  is  the  least  that  can  be  expected ;  and  things  may  per- 
haps not  rest  there.  The  dishonour  is  certain,  my  misfor- 
tune is  plainly  revealed  to  me,  and  my  love  endeavours  in 
vain  to  conceal  it  from  me;  but  I  am  as  yet  unacquainted 
with  the  particulars,  and  my  just  wrath  demands  to  be  en- 
lightened. Your  brother  can  openly  vouch  for  it  that  I  did 
not  leave  him  until  this  morning :  I  am  going  to  seek  him, 
in  order  that  I  may  confound  you  about  this  return  which 
is  falsely  imputed  to  me.  Afterwards,  we  shall  penetrate 
to  the  bottom  of  a  mystery  unheard  of  until  now;  and,  in 
the  transports  of  a  righteous  wrath,  woe  be  to  him  who 
has  betrayed  me ! 

Sos.  Sir  .    .    . 

Amph.  Do  not  accompany  me,  but  wait  here  for  me. 

Cle.   {To  Alcmend).     Must  I  .    .    . 

Alc.  I  can  attend  to  nothing:  leave  me  alone,  and 
follow  me  not.'^ 

Scene  III. — Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Cle.  (Aside).  Something  must  have  disordered  his 
brain  ;  but  the  brother  will  immediately  put  an  end  to 
this  quarrel. 

Sos.  (Aside).  This  is  a  sufficiently  severe  blow  for  my 
master;  and  his  adventure  is  cruel.  I  very  much  fear 
something  of  the  same  kind  for  myself,  and  I  will  very 
gently,  explain  myself  to  her. 

Cle.  (Aside).  Let  us  see  whether  he  will  so  much  as 
speak  to  me  !     But  I  will  let  nothing  appear. 

22  In  Plautus,  when  the  real  Amphitryon  comes  back,  Alcmena  expresses 
her  astonishment  at  his  unexpected  return ;  but  when  her  husband  loads 
her  with  reproaches,  she  replies,  like  a  true  Roman  matron,  I  have  brought 
you  "  that  which  is  called  a  dowry,  I  do  not  deem  the  same  my  dowry ; 
but  chastity,  and  modesty,  and  subdued  desires,  fear  of  the  Gods,  and  love 
of  mv  parents,  and  concord  with  my  kindred  ;  to  be  obedient  to  yourself, 
and  ioounteous  to  the  good,  ready  to  aid  the  upright."  In  Moli^re,  Alcmena 
is  the  voung  loving  Frenchwoman.  .-1.11 

23  This  scene,  which  is  reaUy  the  principal  one  of  the  comedy,  is  wholly 
taken  from  Plautus. 


492  AMPHITRYON.  [act  ii. 

Sos.  (Aside).  These  things  are  often  annoying  to 
know,  and  I  tremble  to  ask  her.  Would  it  not  be  better, 
for  safety's  sake,  to  remain  altogether  ignorant  of  what 
may  be  the  truth  ?  Yet,  at  all  events,  I  must  try  and  iind 
out.  I  cannot  help  doing  so.  One  of  the  weaknesses  of 
human  nature  is  curiosity  to  learn  things  which  it  would 
not  like  to  know.     May  Heaven  preserve  you,  Cleanthis  ! 

Cle.  Ah  !  you  dare  to  come  near  me,  you  wretch? 

Sos.  Great  Heaven  !  what  ails  you  ?  You  are  always 
in  a  temper,  and  you  get  angry  about  nothing  ! 

Cle.  What  do  you  call  about  nothing  ?     Say  ? 

Sos.  I  call  about  nothing  what  is  called  about  nothing 
in  verse  as  well  as  prose  ;  and  nothing,  as  you  well  know, 
means  nothing,  or  at  least  very  little. 

Cle.  I  do  not  know  what  prevents  my  scratching  your 
eyes  out,  infamous  wretch,  and  teaching  you  how  far  the 
anger  of  a  woman  can  go. 

Sos.  Hullo  !  Whence  comes  this  furious  outburst  ? 

Cle.  What !  then  you  reckon  as  nothing  what  you  have 
done  to  me  ? 

Sos.  What? 

Cle.  What  ?  you  pretend  to  be  innocent  ?  Is  it  by  the 
example  of  your  master  that  you  will  say  that  you  did  not 
return  here  ? 

Sos.  No,  I  know  the  contrary  too  well ;  but  I  shall  not 
be  cunning  with  you.  We  had  drunk  of  I  do  not  know 
what  wine,  which  made  me  forget  all  that  I  might  have  done. 

Cle.  You  imagine,  perhaps,  to  excuse  yourself  by  this 
trick  .    .    . 

Sos.  No,  seriously  you  may  believe  me.  I  was  in  a 
condition  in  which  I  may  have  done  things  for  which  I 
should  be  sorry,  and  of  which  I  have  no  recollection. 

Cle.  You  do  not  at  all  remember  the  manner  in  which 
you  treated  me  when  you  came  from  the  port  ? 

Sos.  Not  in  the  least.  You  had  better  give  me  an  ac- 
count of  it :  I  am  just  and  sincere,  and  would  eondemti 
myself  if  I  am  wrong. 

Cle.  How  !  Amphytryon  having  warned  me,  I  sat  up 
until  you  came  ;  but  I  never  beheld  such  coldness :  I  had 
to  remind  you  of  your  having  a  wife ;  and  when  I  wished  to 
kiss  you,  you  turned  away  your  head,  and  presented  your  ear. 


8CKNB  in.]  AMPHItRYON.  4^3 

Sos.  Good  ! 

Cle.  What  do  you  mean  by  good  ? 

Sos.  Good  Heavens  !  You  do  not  know  why  I  talk 
thus,  Cleanthis.  I  had  been  eating  garlic,  and  like  a 
well-behaved  man  did  quite  right  in  turning  my  breath  a 
little  away  from  you. 

Cle.  I  gave  you  to  understand  the  tenderness  of  my 
heart ;  but  you  were  as  deaf  as  a  post  to  all  that  I  said ; 
and  not  a  kind  word  passed  your  lips. 

Sos.  Courage  ! 

Cle.  In  short,  notwithstanding  my  advances,  my  chaste 
flame  found  nothing  in  you  but  ice ;  and  I  felt  disap- 
pointed to  receive  no  response  from  you,  even  so  far  as  to 
refuse  to  take  your  place  in  bed  which  the  laws  of  wed- 
lock oblige  you  to  occupy. 

Sos.  What !  did  I  not  go  to  bed? 

Cle.  No,  you  sneak. 

Sos.  Is  it  possible  ? 

Cle.  Wretch,  it  is  but  too  true.  Of  all  affronts  this  is 
the  greatest ;  and,  instead  of  your  heart  making  amends 
for  it  this  morning,  you  separated  from  me  with  words  of 
undisguised  contempt. 

Sos.   Bravo,  Sosia  ! 

Cle.  Eh,  what !  This  is  the  effect  of  my  complaint ! 
You  laugh  at  this  pretty  piece  of  work  ! 

Sos.  How  satisfied  I  am  with  myself! 

Cle.  Is  this  the  way  to  express  your  regret  for  such  an 
outrage  ? 

Sos.  I  should  never  have  believed  that  I  could  so  well 
control  myself. 

Cle.  Far  from  condemning  yourself  for  such  perfidious 
behaviour,  you  show  your  joy  for  it  in  your  face  ! 

Sos.  Good  gracious  !  not  so  fast !  If  I  appear  to  be 
joyous,  think  that  I  have  a  strong  inward  reason  for  it, 
and  that,  without  thinking  of  it,  I  never  did  better  than 
in  behaving  to  you  in  such  a  way  just  now. 

Cle.  Are  you  making  fun  of  me,  you  wretch? 

Sos.  No,  I  am  speaking  frankly  to  you.  In  the  condi- 
tion in  which  I  was,  I  had  a  certain  fear,  which,  by  your 
words,  you  have  dissipated.  I  was  very  apprehensive,  and 
feared  that  I  had  committed  some  foolishness  with  yoa 


494  AMPHITRYON.  [act  n. 

Cle.  What  is  this  fear  ?  and  let  us  know  wherefore  ? 

Sos.  The  doctors  say  that,  when  one  is  drunk,  one 
should  abstain  from  one's  wife,  and  that,  in  that  state 
there  can  be  no  other  result  than  children  who  are  dull, 
and  who  cannot  live.  Reflect,  if  my  heart  had  not 
armed  itself  with  coldness,  what  inconveniences  might 
have  followed  ! 

Cle.  I  do  not  care  a  pin  for  doctors,  with  their  insipid 
arguments.  Let  them  give  rules  to  the  sick,  without 
wishing  to  govern  people  who  are  in  good  health.  They 
meddle  with  too  many  affairs  in  pretending  to  put  a  curb 
upon  our  chaste  desires ;  and  in  addition  to  the  dog-days, 
they  give  us,  besides  their  severe  rules,  a  hundred  cock- 
and-bull  stories  into  the  bargain. 

Sos.     Gently. 

Cle.  No.  I  maintain  that  theirs  is  a  wrong  conclusion ; 
those  reasons  emanate  from  crack-brained  people.  Neither 
wine  nor  time  can  be  fatal  to  the  performance  of  the  duties 
of  conjugal  love  ;  and  the  doctors  are  asses. 

Sos.  I  beseech  you,  moderate  your  rage  against  them  ; 
they  are  honest  people,  whatever  the  world  may  say  of 
them. 

Cle.  You  are  altogether  in  the  wrong  box ;  your  sub- 
mission is  in  vain ;  your  excuse  will  not  pass ;  and  sooner 
or  later  I  will  pay  you  out,  between  ourselves,  for  the  con- 
tempt which  you  show  me  every  day.  I  keep  in  mind  all 
the  particulars  of  our  conversation,  and  I  shall  try  to  profit 
by  the  liberty  which  you  allow  me,  you  cowardly  and 
perfidious  husband. 

Sos.  What? 

Cle.  You  told  me  just  now,  you  mean  wretch,  that  you 
would  freely  consent  that  I  should  love  another. 

Sos.  Ah !  as  for  that,  I  am  wrong.  I  retract ;  my 
honour  is  too  much  concerned.  You  had  better  beware 
of  giving  way  to  that  passion. 

Cle.  If  I  can,  however,  but  once  make  my  mind  up  to 
it  .    .    . 

Sos.  Let  us  suspend  this  conversation  for  a  little. 
Amphitryon  returns,  who  seems  quite  contented. 


SCENE  VI.]  AMPHITRYON  4g5 

Scene  IV. — Jupiter,  Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Jup.  {Aside).  I  shall  take  this  opportunity  of  appeas- 
ing Alcmena,  of  banishing  the  grief  in  which  her  heart 
wishes  to  indulge,  and,  under  the  pretext  that  brings  me 
hither,  of  giving  my  passion  the  sweet  pleasure  of  recon- 
ciling myself  with  her.  {To  Cleanthis).  Alcmena  is  up 
stairs  is  she  not? 

Cle.  Yes;  full  of  uneasiness  she  seeks  solitude,  and  has 
forbidden  me  to  follow  her. 

Jup.  Whatever  prohibition  she  may  have  made  does  not 
apply  to  me. 

Scene  V. — Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Cle.  He  has  soon  got  over  his  grief,  from  what  1  can 
see. 

Sos.  What  say  you,  Cleanthis,  to  this  cheerful  mien, 
after  his  terrible  quarrel  ? 

Cle.  That  we  would  do  well  to  send  all  the  men  to  the 
devil,  and  that  the  best  of  them  is  not  worth  much. 

Sos.  These  things  are  said  in  a  passion ;  but  you  are 
too  much  taken  up  with  the  men  ;  and,  upon  my  word, 
you  would  all  look  very  glum,  if  the  devil  should  carry  us 
all  off. 

Cle.  Indeed    .    .    . 

Sos.  Hush.     Here  they  come. 

Scene  VI. — Jupiter,  Alcmena,  Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Jup.  Alas  !  Do  you  wish  to  drive  me  to  despair  ?  Stay, 
fair  Alcmena. 

Alc.   No,  I  cannot  stay  with  the  author  of  my  grief. 

Jup.  I  entreat  you  ! 

Alc.  Leave  me. 

Jup.     What   .    .    . 

Alc.  Leave  me,  I  tell  you. 

Jup.  {Softly,  aside).  Her  tears  touch  me  to  the  heart, 
and  her  grief  saddens  me.     {Aloud).     Allow  my  heart  to 

Alc.  No,  do  not  follow  me. 
Jup.   Whither  would  you  go  ? 


496  AMPHITRYON.  [act  11. 

Alc.  Where  you  shall  not  be.** 

Jup.  That  would  be  a  vain  attempt  on  your  part.  I  am 
attached  to  your  beauty  by  too  tight  a  bond  to  be  separated 
for  one  moment  from  it.  I  shall  follow  you  everywhere, 
Alcmena. 

Alc.  And  I  shall  fly  from  you  everywhere. 

Jup.  I  am  very  dreadful,  then  ! 

Alc.  More  than  I  can  express,  to  me.  Yes,  I  look 
upon  you  as  a  frightful  monster,  a  cruel,  furious  monster, 
whose  approach  is  to  be  feared  ;  as  a  monster  to  fly  from 
everywhere.  The  sight  of  you  gives  me  incredible  pain  ; 
it  is  a  torment  that  overwhelms  me ;  and  I  see  nothing 
under  Heaven  of  what  is  frightful,  horrible,  odious,  which 
would  not  be  to  me  more  bearable  than  you. 

Jup.  This  is,  alas  !  what  your  own  mouth  says. 

Alc.  I  have  much  more  in  my  heart ;  and  it  is  but  too 
sorry  that  it  cannot  find  words  to  express  it  all. 

Jup.  And  what  has  my  passion  done  to  you,  Alcmena, 
that  I  should  be  looked  upon  by  you  as  a  monster. 

Alc.  Ah !  just  Heavens !  and  he  can  ask  that  ?  Is  it 
not  enough  to  drive  one  distracted  ? 

Jup.  Ah  !  in  a  gentler  spirit    .    .    . 

Alc.  No  ;  I  wish  neither  to  see  nor  to  hear  anything  of 
you. 

Jup.  Have  you  the  heart  to  treat  me  thus?  Is  this  the 
tender  love  which  was  to  last  so  long,  when  I  came  hither 
yesterday? 

Alc.  No,  no,  it  is  not ;  and  your  cowardly  insults  have 
willed  it  otherwise.  It  exists  no  longer,  this  passionate 
and  tender  love;  you  have  cruelly  destroyed  it  in  my 
heart  by  a  hundred  piercing  wounds.  In  its  place  stands 
an  unbending  wrath,  a  keen  resentment,  an  invincible 
contempt,  the  despair  of  a  heart  justly  incensed,  which 
intends  to  hate  you  for  this  grievous  affront,  as  much  as 
it  intended  to  love  you ;  and  which  means  to  hate  as 
much  as  possible. 

Jup.  Alas!  how  little  strength   your  love  must  have 


**  These  two  lines  are  also  found,  with  some  slight  alteration,  in  the 
sixth  Scene  of  the  second  Act  of  Don  Garcia  of  Navarre.  (See  Vol.  I., 
page  225). 


SCKNHVI.I  AMPHITRYON.  'aqJ 

had,  if  it  can  be  destroyed  by  so  small  a  matter  !  Must 
that  which  was  only  play,  occasion  a  divorce?  and  is  there 
any  occasion  to  be  so  angry  at  a  joke? 

Alc.  Ah  !  it  is  just  this  at  which  I  am  offended,  and 
which  my  anger  cannot  forgive :  I  should  have  felt  less 
hurt  at  the  true  outbursts  of  a  fit  of  jealousy.  Jealousy 
produces  impressions  of  which  the  force  often  carries  us 
away ;  and  the  most  collected  mind  at  such  times  finds 
it,  without  doubt,  difficult  enough  to  be  answerable  for 
its  emotions.  The  violence  of  a  heart  which  may  have 
been  mistaken  has  something  to  bring  back  a  soul  which 
it  has  offended,  and  in  the  love  which  gave  it  birth  it 
finds,  at  least,  in  spite  of  all  its  violence,  reasons  for 
being  excused.  Those  outbursts  have  always  as  an  excuse 
against  anger  that  cause  which  created  them ;  and  we  easily 
forgive  that  which  we  cannot  master.  But,  in  wanton- 
ness of  heart,  to  get  into  an  uncontrollable  fury,  so  deeply 
to  injure,  without  cause,  the  tenderness  and  honour  of  a 
heart  that  dearly  loves  you,  ah !  is  too  cruel  a  blow,  and 
one  which  my  grief  will  never  forget. 

Jup.  Yes,  you  are  right,  Alcmena;  I  must  submit. 
This  action  is  no  doubt  an  odious  crime ;  I  do  not  pre- 
tend to  defend  it  any  longer:  but  allow  my  heart  to  ex- 
onerate itself  in  your  eyes,  and  to  tell  who  is  to  blame 
for  this  insulting  outburst.  To  make  a  frank  avowal  of  it, 
Alcmena,  it  is  the  husband  who  has  committed  all  the 
evil ;  it  is  the  husband  whom  you  must  regard  as  guilty : 
the  lover  had  no  share  in  this  brutal  transport,  and  his 
heart  is  not  capable  of  offending  you.  This  heart  has  too 
much  respect  and  tenderness  for  you  ever  to  dream  of  it; 
and  if  it  had  the  guilty  weakness  to  do  aught  to  wound 
you,  he  would  pierce  it  with  a  hundred  stabs  before  your 
face.  But  the  husband  has  stepped  out  of  that  humble 
respect  which  should  always  be  your  due ;  by  his  harsh 
proceeding,  the  husband  has  shown  himself,  and  he 
thought  that  the  laws  of  marriage  permitted  him  every- 
thing. Yes,  it  is  no  doubt  he  who  is  guilty  towards  you; 
he  alone  has  maltreated  your  amiable  person.  Hate, 
detest  the  husband ;  I  consent  to  it,  and  leave  him  to 
your  mercy;  but,  Alcmena,  preserve  the  lover  from  the 
resentment  which  such  an  offence  raises  in  you ;  do  not 

VOL.   II.  2G 


498  AMPHITRYON.  [act  n. 

throw  the  effect  of  it  on  him ;  separate  him  somewhat 
from  the  guiUy  one;  and,  in  order  to  be  just,  do  not 
punish  him  for  what  he  has  not  done. 

Alc.  Ah  !  all  these  subtleties  are  but  frivolous  excuses ; 
and  such  language  is  only  an  annoyance  to  irritated  minds. 
You  use  in  vain  this  ridiculous  prevarication.  I  distin- 
guish nothing  in  him  who  offends  me ;  everything  becomes 
the  object  of  my  anger,  and  in  its  just  violence,  the  hus- 
band and  the  lover  are  confounded.  Both  alike  occupy 
my  thoughts ;  and,  by  my  wounded  heart,  are  painted  in 
the  same  colours  to  my  eyes.  Both  alike  are  criminal ; 
both  alike  have  offended  me ;  and  both  alike  are  odious 
to  me. 

Jup.  Very  well !  since  you  wish  it,  I  must  then  charge 
myself  with  the  crime.  Yes,  you  are  right  when  you  im- 
molate me  to  your  resentment,  as  a  guilty  victim.  A  too 
just  anger  against  me  sways  you;  and  all  this  great  wrath 
which  you  now  display  is  making  me  suffer  only  lawful  tor- 
ments. It  is  right  that  you  shun  me,  and  that  in  your 
anger  you  threaten  to  fly  from  me  everywhere.  I  must  be 
an  odious  object  to  you;  you  must  wish  me  a  great  deal  of 
harm.  My  transgression  in  having  offended  your  charming 
eyes  surpasses  every  horror ;  it  is  a  crime  to  offend  men  and 
gods;  and  in  short,  I  deserve  as  punishment  for  my  audacity 
that  your  hatred  should  employ  its  most  furious  darts  against 
me.  But  my  heart  craves  your  mercy;  to  ask  it  I  throw 
myself  on  my  knees,  and  implore  it  in  the  name  of  the 
most  brilliant  flame  of  the  tenderest  love  witk  which  a  soul 
can  ever  burn  for  you.  If  your  heart,  charming  Alcmena, 
refuses  me  the  pardon  which  I  dare  to  request,  a  sudden 
stroke  must  deliver  me  by  death  from  the  harsh  rigour  of  a 
penalty  which  I  am  unable  to  endure.  Yes,  this  condition 
drives  me  to  despair.  Do  not  think,  Alcmena,  that  loving 
as  I  do,  your  heavenly  charms,  I  can  live  one  day  under 
your  anger.  The  merciless  length  of  those  moments  makes 
my  afflicted  heart  already  succumb  beneath  their  deadly 
blows;  and  the  cruel  wounds  of  a  thousand  vultures  are 
nothing  compared  to  my  violent  grief.  Alcmena,  you 
have  only  to  declare  it  to  me  if  I  have  no  pardon  to  hope 
for :  this  sword  shall  immediately,  by  a  well  aimed  blow, 
pierce  before  your  eyes  the  heart  of  a  miserable  wretch ; 


SCENE  VI.]  AMPHITRYON.  /^gg 

that  heart,  that  treacherous  heart  only  too  deserving  of 
death,  since  it  could  offend  so  adorable  a  being;  only  too 
happy  if,  in  descending  to  the  dark  regions,  my  death  may 
appease  your  anger;  and  if  after  this  mournful  day,  it 
leaves  in  your  soul  no  impression  of  hatred  whilst  remem- 
bering my  love  !  That  is  all  which  I  expect  as  a  sovereign 
favour. 

Alc.  Ah !  too  cruel  husband  ! 

Jup.  Say,  speak,  Alcmena! 

Alc.  Must  I  still  feel  kindness  for  you,  and  see  you 
outrage  me  by  so  many  insults? 

Jup.  Whatever  resentment  an  outrage  may  cause,  can 
it  hold  out  against  the  remorse  of  a  really  enamoured 
heart  ? 

Alc.  a  heart  full  of  passion  would  sooner  expose  itself 
to  a  thousand  deaths,  than  offend  the  object  of  its  love. 

Jup.  The  more  one  loves,  the  less  difficulty  one  feels  .  . 

Alc.  No,  speak  no  more  about  it ;  you  deserve  my 
hatred. 

Jup.  You  hate  me  then  ? 

Alc.  I  make  every  effort  to  do  so,  and  I  am  vexed  to 
think  that  all  your  insults  cannot  bring  my  heart  even  so 
far  to  indulge  in  that  revenge. 

Jup.  But  why  this  violence,  since,  to  revenge  yourself, 
I  offer  you  my  life  ?  Pronounce  its  doom,  and  immediately 
I  shall  obey. 

Alc.   Can  she  who  cannot  hate  desire  your  death  ? 

Jup.  And  I,  I  cannot  live  unless  you  forego  this  anger 
that  overwhelms  me,  and  unless  you  grant  me  the  favour  of 
a  pardon  which  I  implore  at  your  feet.  (Sosi'a  and  Clean- 
this  kneel  likewise).  Decide  upon  one  of  the  two  quickly, 
either  to  punish,  or  to  absolve  me. 

Alc.  Alas  !  what  I  can  resolve  has  appeared  much  clearer 
than  I  wish.  My  heart  has  too  well  betrayed  me,  for  me 
to  wish  to  keep  up  the  wrath  which  you  mention :  to  say 
that  we  cannot  hate,  is  it  not  saying  that  we  forgive? 

Jup.  Ah,  charming  Alcmena,  I  must  in  the  excess  of  my 
joy  .  .   . 

Alc.  Desist ;  I  am  angry  with  myself  for  so  mucn 
weakness.'® 

*  In  Plautus,  the  real  Amphitryon  threatens  liis  wife  with  a  divorce,  and 


500  AMPHITRYON.  [act  in. 

Jup.  Go  Sosia,  and  make  haste  ;  a  sweet  rapture  charms 
my  soul.  See  what  officers  of  the  army  you  can  find,  and 
invite  them  to  dine  with  me.  {Softly,  aside).  Mercury 
can  supply  his  place,  while  he  is  away  from  this. 

Scene  VII, — Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Sos.  Well !  Cleanthis,  you  see  how  they  arrange  mat- 
ters. Will  you,  in  imitation  of  their  example,  make  up  a 
little  peace  between  us,  some  little  reconciliation  ? 

Cleant.  For  the  sake  of  your  beautiful  face,  "^  truly ! 
yes,  to  be  sure. 

Sos.  What !  you  will  not  then  ? 

Cleant.  No. 

Sos.  It  signifies  little  to  me.  So  much  the  worse  for 
you. 

Cleant.  Well,  well,  come  back. 

Sos.  Zounds  !  no,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  and 
I  shall  be  angry  in  my  turn  now. 

Cleant.  Get  you  gone,  you  wretch  !  leave  me  alone : 
one  gets  weary  sometimes  of  being  a  virtuous  woman. 


ACT  III. 
Scene  I. — Amphitryon,  alone. 

Yes,  without  doubt,  fate  conceals  him  purposely  from 
me  ;  and  I  am  weary  at  last  of  trying  to  find  him  out. 
Nothing  can  be  more  cruel  than  my  lot.    Notwithstanding 

when  Jupiter  appears,  under  his  semblance,  and  tries  to  make  peace  with 
Alcmena,  she  says  (Act  iii.,  Scene  2) : 

Alc.  By  my  virtue  have  I  rendered  these  accusations  vain.  Since  then 
I  eschew  conduct  that's  unchaste,  I  would  wish  to  avoid  imputations  of 
unchastity.  Fare  you  well,  keep  your  own  property  to  yourself,  return 
me  mine.     Do  you  order  any  maids  to  be  my  attendants  ? 

JUP.  Are  you  in  your  senses  ? 

Alc.  If  you  don't  order  them,  let  me  go  alone;  chastity  shall  I  take  as 
my  attendant.    {Going). 

Jup.  Stav— at  your  desire,  I'll  give  my  oath  that  I  believe  my  wife  to  be 
chaste.  If  in  that  I  deceive  you,  then,  thee  supreme  Jupiter,  do  1  entreat 
that  thou  wilt  ever  be  angered  against  Amphitryon. 

Alc.  Oh !  rather  may  he  prove  propitious. 

«8  The  original  has  C  est  pour  ton  tuz,  vraiment  I  "  It  is  for  your  nose, 
really." 


SCKNS  t]  AMPHITRYON.  JOI 

all  my  peregrinations,  I  cannot  find  him  for  whom  I  am 
looking ;  I  meet  all  those  for  whom  I  do  not  look.  A 
thousand  cruel  bores,  who  do  not  imagine  themselves  to 
be  so,  without  knowing  much  of  me,  are  driving  me  mad 
with  their  congratulations  upon  our  exploits.  In  the  cruel 
perplexity  of  the  care  that  harasses  me,  they  overwhelm 
me  with  their  embraces,  and  their  rejoicings  only  increase 
ray  uneasiness.  In  vain  I  endeavour  to  pass  them  by,  to 
fly  from  their  persecutions ;  their  killing  friendship  "  de- 
lays me  everywhere ;  and  whilst  I  reply  to  the  ardour  of 
their  expressions  by  a  nod  of  the  head,  I  silently  mutter  a 
hundred  curses  upon  them.  Ah  !  how  little  we  feel  flat- 
tered by  praise  and  honour,  and  all  the  fruits  of  a  great 
victory,  when  in  our  inmost  soul  we  are  suffering  a  poig- 
nant grief !  And  how  willingly  would  we  barter  all  this 
glory  to  have  the  heart  at  rest  !  Every  minute  my  jealousy 
harps  upon  my  disgrace ;  and  the  more  my  mind  reverts 
to  it,  the  less  am  I  able  to  disentangle  its  direful  confusion, 
The  theft  of  the  diamonds  does  not  surprise  me  ;  seals  may 
be  tampered  with  unparceived  ;  but  she  will  have  it  that 
yesterday  I  presented  the  gift  to  her  personally,  and  this 
is  what  puzzles  me  most  cruelly.  Nature  sometimes  pro- 
duces resemblances,  of  which  some  impostors  have  availed 
themselves  to  deceive ;  but  it  is  preposterous  that,  under 
such  a  semblance,  a  man  should  pass  himself  off  as  a  hus- 
band ;  and  in  such  a  case  there  are  a  thousand  differences 
which  a  wife  can  easily  detect.  The  wonderful  effects  of 
Thessalian  magic  have  at  all  times  been  extolled  ;  but 
those  famous  stories,  everywhere  related  of  it,  have  always 
passed  with  me  for  idle  tales ;  it  would  be  a  hard  fate  in- 
deed, that  I,  fresh  from  a  complete  victory,  should  be  ^ 
compelled  to  believe  them  at  the  cost  of  my  own  honour.'^ 
I  will  once  more  interrogate  her  upon  this  vexatious  mys- 
tery, and  find  out  if  it  be  not  some  idle  fancy  that  has  im- 
posed upon  her  disordered  senses.     Grant,  O  righteous 


"  The  original  has  tuante  amitii  ;  I  do  not  think  that  the  word  tuante, 
killing,  is  often  used  in  this  way  in  French. 

28  The  Amphitryon  of  Plautus  thinks  his  "  doubleganger  "  to  be  a  magi- 
cian, a  sorcerer,  an  enchanter ;  but  Moli^re's  hero  does  not  believe  any- 
thing of  the  kind ;  he  is,  therefore  in  a  much  greater  perplexity,  and  his 
situation  is  much  more  comical. 


502  AMPHITRYON.  [act  iti. 

Heavens,  that  this  thought  may  prove  true,  and  that,  for 
my  happiness,  she  may  have  lost  her  senses ! 

Scene  II. — Mercury,  Amphitryon. 

Merc.  (^On  the  balcony  of  Amphitryon^  s  house  ^without 
being  seen  or  heard  by  him).  Since  love  offers  me  no 
pleasures  here,  I  will  make  myself  some  of  a  different 
nature ;  and  enliven  my  dull  leisure  by  putting  Amphitryon 
out  of  all  patience.  This  may  not  be  very  charitable  in  a 
god ;  but  I  shall  not  trouble  myself  much  about  that ;  I 
find,  by  my  star,  that  I  am  somewhat  disposed  to  malice.'® 

Amph.  How  comes  it  that  at  this  hour  the  door  is 
closed  ? 

Merc.  Hullo  !  gently.     Who  knocks  ? 

Amph.  {JVot  seeing  Mercury).    I. 

Merc.  Who  is  I  ? 

Amph,  {Perceiving  Mercury  whom  he  takes  for  Sosia). 
Ah !   open  ! 

Merc.  Open  indeed  !  And  who  may  you  be,  to  make 
such  an  uproar,  and  to  speak  in  this  strain? 

Amph.  What!   do  not  you  know  me? 

Merc.  No,  and  have  no  wish  to. 

Amph.  (Aside).  Is  every  one  losing  his  senses  to-day? 
Has  the  distemper  spread?  Sosia!  hullo,  Sosia! 

Merc  Well  !  Sosia,  yes,  that  is  my  name;  are  you 
afraid  of  my  forgetting  it  ? 

Amph.  Do  you  see  me  clearly? 

Merc.  Clearly  enough.  What  can  possess  your  arm 
to  make  so  great  a  noise?  What  do  you  want  down 
there? 

Amph.  I,  vou  hangdog  !  what  do  I  want? 

Merc.  What  do  you  not  want  then?  speak,  if  you 
would  have  me  understand  you. 

Amph.  Wait,  you  wretch  !  I  will  come  up  there  with  a 
stick  to  make  you  understand,  and  to  teach  you  properly 
to  dare  speak  to  me  in  this  manner. 

Merc.  Gently!  If  you  make  the  slightest  attempt  at 

^  Mercury,  in  astrology,  "  si^ifieth  subtill  men.  ingenious,  inconstant ; 
rymers,  poets,  advocates,  orators,  phylosophers,  arithmeticians  and  busie 
fellowes." 


SCENE  n.]  AMPHITRYON.  503 

disturbance,  I  shall  send  from  this  some  messengers  which 
you  will  not  like. 

Amph.  Oh  Heavens !  has  such  insolence  ever  been 
heard  of?  Can  one  conceive  it  from  a  servant  from  a 
beggar ! 

Merc.  Well !  what  is  the  matter  ?  Have  you  quite 
summed  me  up?  Have  you  stared  enough  at  me?  How 
wide  he  opens  his  eyes ;  how  wild  he  looks !  If  looks 
could  bite,  he  would  have  torn  me  to  shreds  ere  now. 

Amph.  I  tremble  at  what  you  are  bringing  upon  your- 
self with  all  these  impudent  remarks.  What  a  terrible 
storm  you  are  brewing  for  yourself !  What  a  hurricane  of 
blows  will  descend  upon  your  back  ? 

Merc.  Look  here,  friend ;  If  you  do  not  make  your- 
self scarce  from  this  place,  you  may  come  in  for  some 
knocking  about. 

Amph.  Ah  !  you  shall  know  to  your  cost,  you  scoundrel, 
what  it  is  for  a  servant  to  insult  his  master. 

Merc.  You,  my  master  ! 

Amph.  Yes,  scoundrel!  dare  you  deny  me? 

Merc.   I  recognise  no  other  master  but  Amphitryon. 

Amph.  And  who,  except  myself,  can  this  Amphitryon 
be? 

Merc.  Amphitryon ! 

Amph.  No  doubt. 

Merc.  What  illusion  is  this  !  Tell  me  in  what  honest 
tavern  have  you  been  muddling  your  brain  ? 

Amph.  What !  again  ? 

Merc.  Wos  the  wine  of  the  right  sort? 

Amph.  O  Heavens ! 

Merc.   Was  it  old  or  new? 

Amph.  What  insults !  -r  j      i      •  u 

Merc.  New  is  apt  to  get  into  one's  head,  if  drunk  with- 
out water.  . 

Amph.  Ah  !  certainly  I  shall  tear  out  that  tongue  of 

^°Merc.  Pass  on,  my  good  friend ;  believe  me  that  no 
one  here  will  listen  to  you.  I  have  some  respect  for 
wine.  Go  on,  get  you  away,  and  leave  Amphitryon  to 
the  pleasures  which  he  is  enjoying. 

Amph.  What !  is  Amphitryon  inside  there? 


504  AMPHITRYON.  I" act  hi. 

Merc,  Indeed  he  is;  he  himself,  covered  with  the 
laurels  of  a  single  victory,  is  with  the  fair  Alcmena, 
tasting  the  sweets  of  a  charming  interview.  They  are 
indulging  in  the  pleasures  of  a  reconciliation,  after  a  rather 
whimsical  love-tiff.  You  had  better  beware  how  you  dis- 
turb their  sweet  privacy,  unless  you  wish  him  to  punish 
you  for  your  excessive  rashness. 

Scene  III. — ^Amphitryon,  alone. 

Ah !  how  strangely  he  has  shocked  my  soul !  and  how 
cruelly  disturbed  my  mind  !  And  if  matters  stand  as  this 
wretch  says,  to  what  condition  do  I  see  my  honour  and 
affection  reduced  ?  Upon  what  am  I  to  resolve  ?  Am  I 
to  make  it  public  or  to  keep  it  secret  ?  And  ought  I,  in 
my  anger,  to  lock  the  dishonour  of  my  house  in  my  own 
breast,  or  spread  it  abroad  ?  What !  is  there  any  need  of 
consideration  in  so  gross  an  insult  ?  I  have  nothing  to 
expect,  and  nothing  to  compromise ;  and  all  my  uneasiness 
only  ought  to  tend  to  my  revenge. 

Scene  IV.— Amphitryon,  Sosia,  Naucrates  and  Polidas, 
at  the  farther  part  of  the  stage. 

Sos.  (71?  Amphitryon).  Sir,  with  all  my  diligence,  all 
that  I  have  been  able  to  do  is  to  bring  you  these  gentlemen 
here. 

Amph.  Ah  !  you  are  here  ! 

Sos.  Sir. 

Amph.  Insolent,  bold  fellow ! 

Sos.  What  now? 

Amph.  I  shall  teach  you  to  treat  me  thus. 

Sos.  What  is  the  matter  ?  what  ails  you  ? 

Amph.  (^Drawing his  sword).   What  ails  me,  wretch ? 

Sos.  (71?  Naucrates  and  Fondas').  Help,  gentlemen! 
please  come  quickly, 

Nau.  (  To  Amphitryon).  Oh,  pray  stop ! 

Sos.  What  have  I  done? 

Amph,  You  ask  me  that,  you  rogue  ?  ( To  Naucrates'). 
No,  let  me  satisfy  my  just  anger. 

Sos.  When  they  hang  a  fellow,  they  at  least  tell  him 
why  they  do  it. 


SCHNB  IV.]  AMPHITRYON.  505 

Nau.  (71?  Amphitryon).  Please  to  tell  us  what  his 
crime  is. 

Sos.  Yes,  gentlemen,  please  to  insist  upon  that. 

Amph.  How  !  he  just  now  had  the  audacity  to  shut  the 
door  in  my  face,  and  to  add  threats  to  a  thousand  insolent 
expressions!   {Wishing  to  strike  him).    Ah!  you  scoundrel ! 

Sos.   {Dropping  on  his  knees).     I  am  dead. 

Nau.  {To  Amphitryon).     Calm  this  passion. 

Sos.  Gentlemen! 

Pol.  {To  Sosia).     What  is  it? 

Sos.  Has  he  struck  me  ? 

Amph.  No  ;  he  must  have  his  deserts  for  the  language 
he  made  free  with  just  now. 

Sos.  How  could  that  have  been,  when  I  was  elsewhere 
occupied  by  your  orders?  These  gentlemen  here  can  bear 
witness  that  I  have  just  invited  them  to  dine  with  you. 

Nau.  It  is  true  that  he  brought  us  this  message,  and 
would  not  leave  us. 

Amph.  Who  gave  you  that  order? 

Sos.  You. 

Amph.  And  when  ? 

Sos.  After  your  reconciliation.  Amidst  the  transports 
of  a  soul  delighted  at  having  appeased  Alcmena's  anger. 

{Sosia  gets  up. ) 

Amph.  O  Heaven !  every  instant,  every  step  adds  some- 
thing to  my  cruel  martyrdom;  and,  in  this  fatal  confusion, 
I  no  longer  know  what  to  believe  or  what  to  say. 

Nau.  All  that  he  has  just  related  to  us,  of  what  hap- 
pened at  your  house,  surpasses  the  natural  so  much,  that 
before  doing  anything,  and  before  flying  into  a  passion,  you 
ought  to  clear  up  the  whole  of  this  adventure. 

Amph.  Come ;  you  may  assist  my  efforts ;  and  Heaven 
brings  you  opportunely  hither.  Let  us  see  what  fortune 
may  attend  me  to-day;  let  us  clear  up  this  mystery,  and 
know  our  fate.  Alas  !  I  burn  to  learn  it,  and  I  dread  it 
more  than  death.*"  {Amphitryon  knocks  at  the  door  of  his 
house). 


*>  Plautus,  who  has  this  scene  also,  brings  upon  the  stage  only  one  wit- 
ness— the  pilot  Blepharo;  Moli^re  introduces  here  two,  and  afterwards, 
in  the  eighth  scene,  two  fresh  witnesses. 


5o6  AMPHITRYON  [act  in. 

Scene  V. — Jupiter,  Amphitryon,  Naucrates,  Polidas, 
SosiA. 

Jup.  What  is  this  noise  that  obliges  me  to  come 
down  ?  And  who  knocks  as  if  he  were  the  master  where 
I  am? 

Amph.  Just  gods !    what  do  I  see  ? 

Nau.  Heaven !  what  prodigy  is  this  ?  What !  two 
Amphitryons  are  here  produced  before  us ! 

Amph.  {Aside).  My  senses  are  struck  dumb  !  Alas,  lean 
no  longer  bear  it,  the  adventure  is  at  an  end  ;  my  fate  is 
clear  enough,  and  what  I  behold  tells  me  everything. 

Nau.  The  more  closely  I  view  them,  the  more  I  find 
that  they  are  like  each  other  in  everything. 

Sos.  {^Crossing  to  the  side  of  Jupiter).  Gentlemen,  this 
is  the  true  one;  the  other  is  an  impostor  who  deserves 
chastisement. 

Pol.  Certainly,  this  wonderful  resemblance  keeps  my 
judgment  in  suspense. 

Ajviph.  We  have  been  deceived  too  much  by  an  execrable 
scoundrel ;  I  must  break  the  spell  with  this  steel. 

Nau.  (  To  Aniphit7yon,  who  has  drawn  his  sword).    Stay ! 

Amph.  Let  me  alone  ! 

Nau.  Ye  gods  !  what  would  you  do  ? 

Amph.  Punish  the  vile  deceptions  of  an  impostor  ! 

Jup.  Gently,  gently  !  There  is  very  little  need  of  pas- 
sion ;  and  when  a  man  bursts  out  in  such  a  manner,  it 
leads  us  to  suspect  the  goodness  of  his  reasons. 

Sos.  Yes,  it  is  a  magician,  who  has  a  talisman"  about 
him  to  resemble  the  masters  of  houses. 

Amph.  (^To  Sosia).  I  shall  let  you  feel,  for  your 
share,  a  thousand  blows  for  this  abusive  language. 

Sos.  My  master  is  a  man  of  courage,  and  he  will  not 
allow  his  people  to  be  beaten, 

Amph.  Let  me  satiate  my  fury  and  wash  out  my  affront 
in  this  villain's  blood. 

Nau.  {Stopping  Amphitryon).  We  shall  not  suffer  this 
strange  combat  of  Amphitryon  against  himself. 

Amph.  What !  does  my  honour  receive  this  treatment 
from  you  !  and  do  my  friends  embrace  the  cause  of  a 

'1  The  original  has  ««  caractere. 


8CBNB  v.]  AMPHITRYON.  507 

rogue  !  Far  from  being  the  first  to  take  up  my  revenge, 
they  themselves  prove  an  obstacle  to  my  resentment  ! 

Nau.  What  would  you  have  us  resolve  at  this  sight, 
when  between  two  Amphitryons  all  our  friendship  is  iu 
suspense  ?  Should  we  now  show  our  zeal  to  you,  we  fear 
making  a  mistake,  and  not  recognizing  you.  We  see  full 
well  in  you  the  image  of  Amphitryon,  the  glorious  sup- 
port of  the  Thebans'  welfare  ;  but  we  also  see  the  same 
image  in  him,  nor  are  we  able  to  judge  who  is  the  real 
one.  What  we  have  to  do  is  not  doubtful,  and  the  im- 
postor ought  to  die  by  our  hands  ;  but  this  perfect  resem- 
blance conceals  him  between  you  two ;  and  it  is  too  haz- 
ardous a  stroke  to  undertake  without  being  certain.  Let 
us  ascertain  gently  on  which  side  the  imposture  can  be  ; 
and  the  moment  we  have  disentangled  the  adventure,  you 
will  have  no  need  to  tell  us  our  duty. 

Jup.  Yes,  you  are  right,  and  this  resemblance  author- 
izes you  to  doubt  about  both  of  us.  I  am  not  offended  at 
seeing  you  wavering  thus ;  I  am  more  reasonable,  and 
can  make  allowances  for  you.  The  eye  can  detect  no 
difference  between  us,  and  I  see  that  one  can  easily 
be  mistaken.  You  do  not  see  me  show  my  anger,  nor 
draw  my  sword  ;  that  is  a  bad  method  of  clearing  up  this 
mystery,  and  I  can  find  one  more  gentle  and  more  cer- 
tain. One  of  us  is  Amphitryon,  and  both  of  us  may  seem 
so  to  your  eyes.  It  is  for  me  to  put  an  end  to  this  con- 
fusion ;  and  I  intend  to  make  myself  so  well  known  to 
every  one,  that  at  the  convincing  proofs  of  who  I  may  be, 
he  himself  shall  agree  about  the  blood  from  which  I  spring, 
and  not  have  any  further  occasion  to  say  anything.  In 
the  sight  of  all  the  Thebans  I  will  discover  to  you  the  real 
truth ;  and  the  matter  is,  undoubtedly,  of  sufficient  im- 
portance to  require  the  circumstance  of  it  being  cleared 
up  before  every  one.  Alcmena  expects  from  me  this 
public  testimony  :  her  virtue,  which  is  being  outraged  by 
the  publicity  of  this  disorder,  demands  justification,  and 
I  am  going  to  take  care  of  it.  My  love  for  her  binds  me 
to  it ;  and  I  shall  convene  an  assembly  of  the  noblest 
chiefs,  for  an  elucidation  which  her  honour  requires.  While 
awaiting  these  desirable  witnesses,  pray,  please  to  honour 
the  table  to  which  Sosia  has  invited  you. 


5o8  AMPHITRYON.  [act  in. 

Sos.  I  was  not  mistaken,  gentlemen ;  this  word  puts  an 
end  to  all  irresolution ;  the  real  Amphitryon  is  the  Am- 
phitryon who  gives  dinners.** 

Amph.  O  Heavens !  can  I  see  myself  humiliated  much 
lower  ?  What !  must  I  suffer  the  martyrdom  of  listening 
to  all  that  this  impostor  has  just  said  to  my  face,  and  have 
my  hands  tied,  whilst  his  discourse  drives  me  furious  ! 

^KM.  {To  A7nphitryon).  You  complain  wrongly.  Allow 
us  to  await  the  elucidation  which  shall  render  resentments 
seasonable.  I  do  not  know  whether  he  imposes  upon  us ; 
but  he  speaks  as  if  he  had  right  on  his  side. 

Amph.  Go,  weak  friends,  and  flatter  the  imposture. 
Thebes  has  other  friends,  different  from  you :  and  I  am 
going  to  find  some  who,  sharing  the  insult  done  to  me, 
will  know  how  to  lend  their  hand  to  avenge  my  just 
anger. 

Jup.  Well  !  I  await  them,  and  I  shall  know  to  decide 
the  quarrel  in  their  presence. 

Amph.  Scoundrel,  you  think  perhaps  to  escape  by  these 
means ;  but  nothing  shall  shield  you  from  my  revenge. 

Jup.  I  shall  not  condescend  to  answer  this  insulting 
language  at  present ;  and  by  and  by  I  shall  be  able  to 
confound  this  rage  with  two  words. 

Amph.  Not  Heaven,  not  Heaven  itself,  shall  shield  you 
from  it ;  and  I  shall  dog  your  footsteps  even  unto  hell. 

Jup.  There  will  be  no  need  of  that  \  and  you  shall  soon 
see  that  I  will  not  fly. 

Amph.  {Aside).  Come,  let  us,  before  he  gets  out  with 
them,  make  haste  to  assemble  such  friends  as  will  second 
my  vengeance,  and  who  will  come  to  my  house  to  lend 
me  assistance  to  pierce  him  with  a  thousand  wounds. 

Scene  VI. — Jupiter,  Naucrates,  Polidas,  Sosia. 

Jup.  No  ceremony,  I  beseech  you ;  let  us  go  quickly 
within  doors. 

Nau.  Certainly,  the  whole  of  this  adventure  puzzles  the 
senses  and  the  reason. 

Sos.  A  truce,  gentlemen,  to  all  your  surprises  ;  and 
joyfully  sit  down  to  feast  till  morning.    {Alone).  Now  for 

'*  This  last  saying  is  even  now  used  as  a  proverb. 


SCENE  VII.]  AMPHITRYON.  Cog 

a  good  feed,  and  to  put  myself  in  condition  to  relate  our 
valiant  deeds  !  I  am  itching  to  be  at  it ;  and  I  was  never 
so  hungry  in  my  life.** 

Scene  VII. — Mercury,  Sosia. 

Mer.  Stop,  What  !  you  come  to  poke  your  nose  in 
here,  you  impudent  plate-licker ! 

Sos.  For  mercy's  sake,  gently  ! 

Mer.  Ah  !  you  are  at  it  again  !  I  shall  dust  your  coat 
for  you. 

Sos.  Alas  !  brave  and  generous  I,  compose  yourself,  I 
beg  of  you.  Sosia,  spare  Sosia  a  little,  and  do  not  amuse 
yourself  in  cudgelling  yourself 

Mer.  Who  gave  you  permission  to  call  yourself  by 
that  name  ?  Did  I  not  expressly  forbid  you  to  do  so, 
under  penalty  of  a  thousand  blows  ? 

Sos.  It  is  a  name  we  both  may  bear  at  the  same  time, 
under  the  same  master.  I  am  known  for  Sosia  every- 
where ;  I  allow  that  you  should  be  he,  allow  that  I  may  be 
he  also.  Let  us  leave  it  to  the  two  Amphitryons  to  display 
their  jealousies,  and,  amidst  their  contentions,  let  us  make 
the  two  Sosias  live  in  peace. 

Mer.  No,  one  is  qurte  enough ;  and  I  am  obstinate  in 
allowing  no  dividing. 

Sos.  You  shall  have  the  precedence  over  me;  I  shall  be 
the  younger,  and  you  the  elder. 

Merc.  No  !  a  brother  is  troublesome,  and  is  not  to  my 
taste ;  and  I  wish  to  be  an  only  son. 

Sos.  O  barbarous  and  tyrannical  heart !  Allow  me  at 
least  to  be  your  shadow. 

Mer.   Nothing  of  the  kind. 

Sos.  Let  your  soul  humanize  itself  with  a  little  pity ! 
Suffer  me  to  be  near  you  in  that  capacity;  I  shall  be  such 
a  submissive  shadow  everywhere,  that  you  shall  be  satisfied 
with  me. 

Mer.  No  quarter;  the  decree  is  immutable.  If  you 
agam  have  the  audacity  to  enter  there,  a  thousand  blows 
shall  be  the  consequence. 

S3  From  this  to  the  end  of  the  comedy,  Amphitryon  belongs  entirely  to 
Moli^re. 


5IO  AMPHITRYON.  [act  m. 

Sos.  Alack  !  poor  Sosia,  to  what  cruel  disgrace  are  you 
reduced  ! 

Mer.  What !  your  lips  still  take  the  liberty  of  giving 
yourself  a  name  which  I  forbid  1 

Sos.  No,  I  was  not  hearing  myself;  and  I  was  speaking 
of  an  old  Sosia,  who  was  formerly  a  relative  of  mine,  and 
whom,  with  the  greatest  barbarity,  they  drove  out  at  the 
dinner  hour. 

Mer.  Beware  of  falling  into  that  mistake,,  if  you  wish  to 
remain  among  the  living. 

Sos.  {Aside).  How  I  would  thrash  you  if  I  had  the 
courage,  for  your  too  inflated  pride,  you  double  son  of  a 
strumpet ! 

Mer.  What  are  you  saying? 

Sos.   Nothing, 

Mer.  You  are,  I  believe,  muttering  something  to  your- 
self 

Sos.  Ask  any  one;  I  did  not  so  much  as  breathe. 

Mer.  Certain  words  about  the  son  of  a  strumpet  have 
struck  my  ear,  nothing  is  more  certain. 

Sos.  It  must  be  some  parrot  awakened  by  the  beautiful 
weather. 

Mer.  Farewell.  If  your  back  should  itch,  this  is  the 
spot  where  I  reside. 

Sos.  {Alone).  O  Heavens !  the  cursedest  hour  to  be 
turned  out  of  doors  is  the  dinner  hour.  Come,  let  us  sub- 
mit to  fate  in  our  affliction.  Let  us  to  day  follow  blind 
caprice,  and  by  a  proper  union,  join  the  unfortunate  Sosia 
to  the  unfortunate  Amphitryon.  I  perceive  him  coming 
in  good  company." 

Scene  VIII. — Amphitryon,  Argatiphontidas,  Pausicles, 
Sosia,  in  a  corner  of  the  stage,  without  being  seen. 

Amph.  {To  several  other  officers  who  accompany  hitn). 
Stay  here,  gentlemen  :  follow  us  from  a  little  distance,  and 
do  not  all  come  forward,  I  pray  you,  until  there  is  need 
for  it. 

Paus.  I  understand  that  this  blow  must  touch  you  to 
the  very  heart. 

"  This  scene  is  taken  from  Rotrou's  Les  deux  Sosies. 


SCENE  vin.]  AMPHITRYON.  5II 

Amph.  My  grief,  alas !  is  poignant  at  all  points,  and  I 
suffer  in  my  affection,  as  much  as  in  my  honour. 

Paus.  If  this  resemblance  is  such  as  is  said,  Alcmena, 
without  being  to  blame  .    .    . 

Amph.  Ah !  in  the  matter  in  question,  a  simple  error 
becomes  a  real  crime,  and  against  its  will,  innocence  perishes 
in  it.  Such  errors,  look  at  them  in  whatever  light  you 
will,  touch  us  in  the  most  delicate  parts ;  and  reason  often 
pardons  them,  when  honour  and  love  cannot  do  so. 

Argat.  I  do  not  perplex  my  thoughts  about  that ;  but  I 
hate  your  gentlemen  for  their  shameful  delay ;  and  that  is 
a  proceeding  which  wounds  me  to  the  quick,  and  of  which 
people  who  have  their  hearts  in  the  right  place,  will  never 
approve.  When  anyone  employs  us,  we  should  headfore- 
most, throw  ourselves  into  his  concerns.  Argatiphontidas 
is  not  for  compromising  matters.  It  does  not  become  men 
of  honour  to  listen  to  the  arguments  ofa  friend's  adversary; 
one  should  listen  only  to  revenge  at  such  times.  Such  a 
proceeding  does  not  suit  me;  and  one  should  begin  always 
in  those  quarrels,  by  running  a  man  through  the  body, 
without  much  ado.  Yes,  you  shall  see,  whatever  happens 
that  Argatiphontidas  goes  straight  to  the  point ;  and  I  must 
crave  as  a  particular  favour  that  the  scoundrel  shall  die  by 
no  other  hand  than  mine. 

Amph.  Come  on. 

Sos.  (7i?  Amphitryofi).  I  come,  Sir,  to  undergo  on 
both  knees  the  just  punishment  of  a  cursed  insolence. 
Strike,  beat,  thrash,  overwhelm  me  with  blows.  Kill  me 
in  your  anger,  you  will  do  well,  I  deserve  it :  and  I  shall 
i>ot  say  a  word  against  you. 

Amph.  Get  up.     What  are  they  doing? 

Sos.  I  have  been  turned  away  without  ceremoiiy;  and 
thinking  to  eat  and  be  merry  like  them,  I  did  not  imagine 
that,  in  fact,  I  was  waiting  there  to  give  myself  a  beatmg. 
Yes,  the  other  I,  servant  to  the  other  you,  has  played  the 
very  devil  with  me  again.  The  same  harsh  destmy  seems 
to  pursue  us  both  at  present.  Sir ;  and,  in  short,  they  have 
un-Sosiad  me,  as  they  un-Amphitryon'd  you.^ ^_ 

85  Plautus  is  full  of  similar  plays  on  words.  For  example,  in  Trinum- 
mm  ;  the  three  pieces  of  money.  Act  iv..  Scene  2,  the  Sharper  says  to  Char- 
mides,  an  Athenian  merchant,  and  whom  he  does  not  beheve  to  be     his 


512  AMPHITRYON.  [act  in. 

Amph.  Follow  me. 

Sos.  Is  it  not  better  to  see  if  anybody  is  coming? 

Scene  IX. — Cleanthis,  Amphitryon,  Argatiphontidas, 
PoLiDAS,  Naucrates,  Pausicles,  Sosia, 

Cle.  O  Heaven  ! 

Amph.  What  scares  you  so  ?  What  is  the  fear  with 
which  I  inspire  you? 

Cle.  Lord-a-mercy !  you  are  up  there,  and  yet  I  see 
you  here  ! 

Nau,  Do  not  be  in  a  hurry;  here  he  comes  to  give  the 
wished-for  explanation  before  us  all,  and  which,  if  we  may 
believe  what  he  has  just  said  about  it,  shall  at  once  dispel 
your  trouble  and  care. 

Scene   X. — Mercury,  Amphitryon,  Argatiphontidas, 

PoLiDAS,  Naucrates,  Pausicles,  Cleanthis,  Sosia. 

Mer.  Yes,  you  all  shall  see  him  ;  and  know  beforehand 
that  it  is  the  great  master  of  the  gods,  whom,  under  the 
beloved  features  of  this  resemblance,  Alcmena  has  caused 
to  descend  hither  from  the  Heavens.  And  as  for  me,  I 
am  Mercury,  who,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  has  thrashed 
more  or  less  him  whose  form  I  have  assumed  :  but  now  he 
may  comfort  himself;  for  the  blows  of  a  god  confer  hon- 
our upon  him  who  receives  them. 

Sos.  Upon  my  word.  Mister  god,  I  am  your  servant ; 
but  I  could  have  dispensed  with  your  courtesy. 

Mer.  I  henceforth  give  him  leave  to  be  Sosia.  I  am 
tired  of  wearing  such  an  ugly  face ;  and  I  am  going  to  the 
skies  to  wash  it  off  entirely  with  ambrosia. 

(Mercury  ascends  to  Heaven. 

Sos.  May  Heaven  forever  deprive  you  of  the  fancy  of 
coming  near  me  again !  Your  fury  against  me  has  been 
too  inveterate  ;  and  never  in  my  life  did  I  see  a  god  who 
was  more  of  a  devil  than  you ! 

Scene  XI. — ^Jupiter,  Amphitryon,  Naucrates,  Arga- 
tiphontidas, PoLiDAS,  Pausicles,  Cleanthis,  Sosia. 
Jup.  {Announced  by  the  noise  of  thunder,  armed  with  his 

own  self,"  "  therefore,  in  such  manner  as  you  Charmidised  yourself,  do 
you  again  un-Charmidise  yourselt" 


SCENE  XI.]  AMPHITRYON.  513 

thunder-bolt,  in  a  cloud,  on  his  eagle).  Behold,  Amphi- 
tryon, who  has  imposed  upon  you;  and  see  Jupiter  appear 
in  his  own  features.  By  these  signs  you  may  easily  recog- 
nise him ;  and  it  is  sufficient,  I  think,  to  re-instate  your 
heart  in  the  condition  in  which  it  ought  to  be,  and  to  re- 
store peace  and  happiness  in  your  family.  My  name, 
which  the  whole  world  incessantly  worships,  quells  in  this 
case  all  scandal  that  might  be  spread.  A  share  with  Jupi- 
ter has  nothing  dishonourable  in  it,  and  doubtless,  it  can 
be  only  glorious  to  find  one's  self  the  rival  of  the  sovereign 
of  the  gods.  I  see  no  reason  in  it  that  your  love  should 
murmur,  and  it  is  I,  god  as  I  am,  who,  in  this  adventure, 
should  be  jealous.  Alcmena  is  wholly  yours,  whatever 
pains  may  be  taken ;  and  it  must  be  very  gratifying  to 
your  love  to  see  that  there  is  no  other  way  of  pleasing  her 
than  to  assume  the  appearance  of  her  husband ;  that  even 
Jupiter,  adorned  by  his  immortal  glory,  could  not  by  him- 
self conquer  her  fidelity ;  and  that  what  she  granted  him 
has,  by  her  ardent  heart,  been  granted  only  to  you.** 

Sos.  My  lord  Jupiter  knows  how  to  gild  the  pill. 

Jup.  Banish,  therefore,  your  gloomy  and  heart-felt 
grief,  and  restore  its  wonted  calm  to  the  ardour  which 
consumes  you.  In  your  house  shall  be  born  a  son,  who, 
under  the  name  of  Hercules,  shall  fill  the  vast  universe 
with  his  exploits.  A  glorious  fate,  bearing  a  thousand 
blessings,  shall  prove  to  every  one  that  I  am  your  support  > 
I  shall  make  your  destiny  the  envy  of  the  whole  world. 
You  may  safely  flatter  yourself  with  these  promised  hopes. 
It  is  a  crime  to  doubt  them :  the  words  of  Jupiter  are  the 
decrees  of  fate.  (He  vanishes  in  the  clouds. 

Nau.  Certainly  I  am  enraptured  at  these  brilliant 
marks  .    .    . 

Sol.  Gentlemen,  will  you  please  to  follow  my  opinion  ? 
Embark  not  in  these  pretty  congratulations  :  it  is  a  bad 
investment;  and  pretty  phrases  are  embarrassing  on 
either  side,  in  such  a  compliment.  The  great  god  Jupi- 
ter has  done  us  much  honour,  and,  no  doubt,  his  good- 


36  If  in  this  play  there  had  been  the  sh'^htest  allusion  to  the  love  of 
Louis  XIV.  for  Madame  de  Montespan  MoliSre  would  certainly  not  have 
slipped  in  this  compliment  to  her  husband. 

VOL.   II.  2H 


5l4  AMPHITRYON.  [act  in, 

ness  towards  us  is  unequalled ;  he  promises  the  certain 
felicity  of  a  glorious  fate,  bearing  a  thousand  blessings, 
and,  that  in  our  house  shall  be  born  a  very  mighty  son. 
Nothing  could  be  better  than  all  this.  But,  in  short,  a 
truce  to  speeches,  and  let  every  one  retire  in  peace.  It 
is  always  best  in  these  matters  to  say  nothing. 


GEORGE  DANDIN;  OU,  LE  MARI  CONFONDU. 

COMEDIE. 


GEORGE  DANDIN:  OR.  THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND. 

A  COMEDY  IN  THREE  ACTS. 

i^the  original  in  verse.) 

July  i8th  1668. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTICE 


The  treaty  of  Aix-la-Chapelle  having  been  ratified  on  the  2nd  of  May, 
1668,  and  peace  being  assured,  at  least  for  some  time,  Louis  XIV.  re- 
solved to  give  a  festival  in  his  favourite  gardens  of  Versailles,  as  he  had 
already  done  in  1664.  (See  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Princess  of  Elis.) 
This  festival  was  held  on  the  i8th  of  July  1668,  and  Moli^re's  comedy, 
George  Dandin,  formed  the  chief  entertainment.  Our  author  took  the 
plot  chiefly  from  one  of  his  farces,  The  jealousy  of  the  Barbouille,  in 
which  a  wife,  who  comes  home  rather  late,  finds  the  door  shut,  and  threat- 
ens to  kill  herself  if  her  husband  does  not  let  her  in.  She  pretends  to  do 
so  ;  the  good  man  rushes  out  of  the  house  quite  terrified  ;  the  wife,  mean- 
while, sneaks  in,  and  he  in  his  turn  is  locked  out.  This  idea  is  found  in  an 
Indian  tale,  in  la  Roman  de  Dolopathos,  written  in  the  beginning  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  and  also  in  the  fourth  story  of  the  seventh  day  of 
Boccaccio's  Decameron.  But  Moli^re  thought  very  likely  that  this  plot 
was  too  slight  for  a  comedy,  and  added  to  it  a  second  idea,  which  exists 
in  all  literatures,  namely,  the  danger  of  inequality  of  rank  or  education  in 
marriage.  Most  probably,  he  took  it  from  the  eighth  story  of  the  seventh 
day  of  the  Decarneron,  in  which  is  related  how  Arriguccio  Berlinghieri,  a 
rich  merchant,  married  a  noble  lady,  named  Sismonda.  His  wife  deceives 
him  ;  he  thinks  he  has  found  her  out,  cuts  off  all  her  hair,  gives  her  a 
sound  beating,  and  even  disfigures  her.  But  when  he  returns  with  her 
family — a  mother  and  three  brothers — his  wife  appears  in  all  her  beauty 
and  with  all  her  hair,  because  she  had  bribed  one  of  her  servants  to  take 
the  well-deserved  punishment  in  her  stead.  Hereupon  the  wife  accuses 
her  husband  of  being  a  drunkard ;  he  is  soundly  rated  both  by  the 
mother  and  the  three  brawny  brothers,  and  warned  not  to  misbehave 
again. 

The  whole  of  the  play  is  rather  extravagant,  but  it  is  ftill  of  humour ; 
the  characters  are  very  well  drawn,  and  the  dialogue  is  spirited.  The 
servant  girl  Claudine  is  certainly  one  of  the  most  impudent  hussies  whom 
even  Moli^re  has  sketched  ;  whilst  the  family  de  Sotenville  faithfully  rep- 
resent the  poor  but  proud  French  provincial  nobles,  as  they  existed  in 
Moli^re's  time. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  impression  which  George  Dandin  leaves 
upon  our  minds  is  not  a  healthy  one,  and  that  the  triumph  of  an  adulter- 
ous  woman  over  a  husband,  who,  after  all,  is  only  guilty   of  having 


5l8  GEORGE   DANDIN;    OR, 

married  above  his  station,  cannot  be  justified.  But,  in  extenuation,  we 
may  say  that  George  Dandin  was  written  only  for  a  courtly  "  high  jinks  ;" 
to  excite  the  laughter  of  a  public,  whose  risible  muscles  were  not  easily 
moved ;  and  that,  after  all,  the  ideas  about  matrimonial  fidelity  were  not 
the  same  at  the  court  of  Louis  XIV.  as  they  are  at  the  present  time 
amongst  civilized  nations.  The  same  year  (1668)  in  which  Moliere's  play 
was  acted  before  the  Court,  Madame  de  Montespan,  a  married  woman, 
became  the  recognized  mistress  of  the  Grand  Mon argue,  whilst,  later,  her 
children  by  that  King  became  enfants  legitimes  de  France. 

This  piece  was  only  performed  in  the  theatre  of  the  Palais  Royal  on  the 
9th  of  November, — precisely  two  months  after  the  first  representation  of 
The  Miser.  Grimarest  relates  an  anecdote  about  Moliere,  which  seems 
to  me  very  unlike  his  character,  namely,  that  he  read  his  comedy  to  a  real 
Dandin  before  giving  it  to  the  public,  in  order  to  conciliate  the  foolish 
husband,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of  some  influence  ;  and  that 
the  latter  became  one  of  the  warmest  patrons  of  the  play. 

Several  English  dramatists  have  imitated  this  piece.  Betterton,  the 
actor,  wrote  a  partial  imitation  of  it,  which,  under  the  name  of  The  Am- 
orous Widow,  or  The  Wanton  Wife,  was  brought  out  at  the  theatre  in 
Lincoln's-Inn-Field  in  1670.  As  Moliere's  play  is  in  three  acts,  and  Bet- 
terton's  in  five,  the  latter  tacked  an  underplot  to  it,  consisting  of  an  amor- 
ous widow,  vastly  "prone  to  an  iteration  of  nuptials,''  and  who  at  last, 
not  finding  any  one  willing  to  marry  her,  takes  up  with  the  Viscount  Sans 
Terre,  who  proves  to  be  a  falconer  in  disguise,  and  is  a  reminiscence  of 
the  Marquis  de  Mascarille  and  the  Viscount  de  Jodelet  in  The  Pretentious 
Young  Ladies.  Geneste  says.^ — "That  part  of  it  which  is  taken  from 
George  Dandin  is  very  good,  the  other  part  of  it  is  indifferent."  ' 

On  the  i8th  of  April,  1781,  was  represented  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre 
Barnaby  Brittle,  or  a  Wife  at  her  Wit's  end,  a  larce  in  two  acts,  altered 
firom  Moliere  and  Betterton.  It  is  a  condensation  of  Moliere's  play,  with 
something  added  from  Mrs.  Centlivre's  Artifice,  namely,  the  scene  when 
the  servant  Jeremy  brings  his  Mistress'  clogs  on  a  plate,  and  the  one  in 
which  Mrs.  Brittle  pretends  to  have  broken  her  leg.  Barnaby  is  a  glass- 
man. 

A  farce,  called  George  Dandin,  was  also  acted  once  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre,  November  25,  1747 ;  but  it  has  never  been  printed. 

Dibdin,  in  The  Metamorphoses  (see  Introductory  Notice  to  The  Sicilian) 
has  imitated  from  Moliere's  play,  the  second  Scene  of  the  first  Act  and  the 
seventh  Scene  of  the  second  Act.  The  hero  is  called,  in  the  English  play, 
Don  Pedro,  and  the  loutish  servant,  Perez. 

An  operatic  farce,  December  and  May,  written  by  Dimond,  and  founded 
on  Moliere's  comedy,  was  brought  out  on  the  i6th  of  May  1818,  at  Co- 
vent  Garden  Theatre.  The  only  novelty  in  it  is  that  Zodolet,  the  servant 
of  the  fast  young  nobleman,  is  partly  bribed  and  partly  frightened  to  bear 
false  witness. 

In  the  fifth  volume  of  the  translation  of  "Select  Comedies  of  Mr.  de 


1  Geneste,  Some  account  of  the  English.  Stage,  1832,  10  vols.,  I.  108. 

2 In  the  British  Museum,  there  is  a  copy  of  The  Amorous  W^/rfira/,  printed  in 
1729  the  fourth  edition,  with  the  names  of  three  I^ndon  printers  and  containing 
the  Proloeue  and  Epilogue  totally  different  from  the  copy  in  the  advocates  Libra- 
ry in  Edinburgh,  published  in  London  in  the  year  1710,  "now  first  printed  from 
the  original  copy,"  and  which  contains  a  descriptive  list  of  Dramatis  Personse, 
wanting  in  the  first  mentioned  copy,  but  has  neither  Prologue  nor  Epilogue. 


THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  519 

MoliSre,  published  in  London,  1732,"  George  Dandin  has  a  most  impu- 
dent dedication  to  tbe  Right  Honourable  the  Lady  *•  *•  *  * 

Madamb, 

There's  no  body  to  whom  this  Play  can  with  so  much  propriety  be  addressed, 
as  to  your  Ladyship,  whose  real  Story  abounds  with  more  Intrigue  and  Contri- 
vance than  all  that  the  fruitful  Fancy  o\  Moli^re  has  been  able  to  invent. 

Your  dexterous  Management  of  a  Husband  is  so  extraordinary,  that  other  Wives 
behold  it  with  Envy  and  Emulation ;  your  Example  plainly  showing  that  a  Wo- 
man may  heartily  despise  her  Husband,  and  at  the  same  time  make  him  believe  she 
loves  him,  and  that  Matrimony  is  so  far  from  restraining  that  it  may  be  made  even 
subservient  to  Gallantry. 

An  Husband  not  overwise  is  a  Conveniency  your  Ladyship  well  knows  how  to 
make  proper  Use  of — most  people  were  indeed  supriz'd  at  your  marrying  Mr 
*****;  but  you  Madatne,  (whese  Schemes  are  beyond  the  Reach  of  Common 
Capacities)  easily  foresaw  the  advantage  of  being  the  Wife  of  one  whom  Your 
superior  Rank  and  Alliances  would  overawe,  whom  Your  Wit  would  entirely  di- 
rect and  govern,  and  whose  large  Fortune  would  supply  the  necessary  Expenses  of 
a  fine  Lady. 

I  shall  attempt  no  further  a  Task  I  am  unequal  to,  but  leave  the  World  to  praise 
You  as  You  deserve;  permit  me  only  to  declare,  that  I  am,  with  a  great  deal  of 
Admiration,  Madam,  Your  Ladyship' s  most  obedient,  and  most  humble  Servant, 

THE  TRANSLATOR. 

As  we  have  already  mentioned,  Moli^re's  play  formed  part  of  the  court 
entertainment,  of  which  a  description  was  published  in  1668,  under  the 
name  of  Relation  de  la  Fete  de  Versailles.  This  narative  was  written  by 
Felibien,  but  the  verses  by  Moli^re.  We  here  give  a  resume  of  the  official 
description : — 

"  Having  granted  peace  at  the  instance  of  his  allies  and  at  the  desire  of 
all  Europe  ;  having  given  marks  of  an  unexampled  moderation  and  kind- 
ness, even  in  the  midst  of  his  most  glorious  conquests,  the  king  had  no 
other  thought  than  to  apply  himself  to  the  affairs  of  his  kingdom,  when, 
in  order  to  make  up  a  little  for  the  pleasures  which  the  court  had  lest  dur- 
ing his  absence  in  carnival  time,  he  resolved  to  give  a  fete  in  the  gardens 
of  Versailles,  where,  amidst  the  pleasures  to  be  found  in  so  delicious  a  re- 
treat, the  mind  could  not  fail  to  be  charmed  with  those  many  astonishing 
and  extraordinary  beauties  with  which  this  great  prince  knew  so  well  how 
to  season  all  his  entertainments. 

"  To  attain  this  effect,  wishing  to  have  a  comedy  after  a  collation,  and 
the  supper  after  the  comedy,  to  be  followed  up  by  a  ball  and  a  display  of 
fireworks,  he  selected  those  persons  whom  he  thought  most  capable  of 
performing  these  things  properly.  He  himself  marked  out  for  them  those 
spots,  the  situation  of  which  he  deemed  most  suitable,  from  their  natural 
beauty,  to  contribute  advantageously  to  their  decoration  ;  and  because  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  ornaments  of  this  house  is  the  quantity  of  water 
which  art  has  brought  there,  notwithstanding  that  nature  had  not  provided 
it,  his  Majesty  ordered  them  to  make  the  utmost  use  of  it  to  enhance  the 
embellishment  of  said  spots,  and  even  gave  them  the  means  to  employ  it, 
and  to  obtain  the  greatest  possible  effects  from  it.  

"  For  the  execufion  of  this  fete,  the  duke  de  Cr^quy,  ^^  first  gentleman 
of  the  chamber,  was  chars^ed  with  everything  that  belonged  to  the  comedy 
the  marshall  de  Bellefonds,  as  first  steward  of  t^ejoya  household  took 
care  of  the  collation,  of  the  supper,  and  of  everything  '^f  ^^.^.^^^f," ^^ 
the  service  of  the  table;  and  Monsieur  Colbert,  as  supenntendent  of  the 
roval  buildings,  had  the  different  places  for  the  '•oy^l^'n^;^'"'^^ ^^the 
stmcted  and  embellished,and  gave  the  orders  for  the  performance  01  me 


520  GEORGE  DANDIN ;    OR, 

display  of  fireworks.  The  sieur  Vigarani  was  commanded  to  arrange  the 
theatre  for  the  comedy ;  the  sieur  Gissey  to  prepare  a  room  for  the  supper; 
and  the  sieur  Le  Vau,  first  architect  of  the  king,  another  for  the  ball. 

"  On  Wednesday,  the  eighteenth  day  of  July,  the  king  came  from  Saint 
Germain  to  dine  at  Versailles  with  the  queen,  Monseigneur  the  dauphin 
Monsieur  and  Madame.  The  remainder  of  the  court  having  also  arrived 
immediately  after  mid-day,  were  met  by  the  king's  officers,  who  did  the 
honours,  and  received  everybody  in  the  salons  of  the  castle,  where  in 
several  places,  were  tables  for  refreshments ;  the  principal  ladies  were 
conducted  to  the  private  apartments  to  take  some  rest. 

"At  six  o'clock  at  night,  the  king  having  given  the  order  to  the  Mar- 
quis de  Gesvres,  the  captain  of  his  guards,  to  have  all  the  doors  thrown 
open,  so  that  there  might  be  nobody  that  did  not  take  part  in  the  enter- 
tainment, walked  out  of  the  castle  with  the  queen  and  rest  of  the  court,  to 
amuse  themselves  with  a  promenade." 

Felibien,  after  having  followed  the  king  through  all  the  particulars  of 
his  promenade,  and  having  described  the  splendour  of  the  theatre  con- 
structed in  the  garden  continues,  as  follows : — 

Though  the  piece  represented  must  be  regarded  as  an  impromptu,  and 
one  of  these  works,  in  which  the  necessity  to  satisfy  the  orders  of  the  king 
on  the  spot,  leaves  not  always  time  completely  \o  finish  and  to  polish  it,  it 
is  nevertheless  certain  that  it  is  composed  of  jjarts  so  diversified  and  plea- 
sant, that  we  may  safely  say  that  none  have  appeared. on  the  stage  so  well 
calculated  to  please  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  spectators  at  the  same  time. 
The  prose  which  has  been  employed  is  a  very  fit  language  for  the  action 
it  represents,  and  the  verses  which  are  sung  between  the  acts  of  the  co- 
medy, accord  so  well  with  the  subject,  and  express  so  tenderly  the  pas- 
sions with  which  they  who  recite  them  must  be  moved,  that  there  never 
has  been  heard  anything  more  stirring.  Though  it  appears  that  there  are 
two  comedies,  which  are  being  played  at  the  same  time,  one  of  which  is 
in  prose  and  the  other  verse,  they  are  however  so  well  adapted  to  the 
same  subject,  that  they  make  but  one  piece,  and  represent  but  one  action. 
The  overture  of  the  stage  is  performed  by  four  shepherds,  disguised  as 
servants  of  the  fete,  who  accompanied  by  four  other  shepherds,  playing 
upon  the  flute,  perform  a  dance,  in  which  they  force  a  rich  peasant,  whom 
they  have  met,  to  take  a  part,  and  who,  dissatisfied  with  his  marriage, 
has  his  head  full  of  annoying  thoughts ;  therefore  he  very  soon  retires 
from  their  society  where  he  only  remained  by  compulsion. 

"  ClimSneand  Chloris,  who  are  two  companion  shepherdesses,  hearing 
the  sound  of  the  flutes,  come  to  add  their  voices  to  the  instruments,  and 
sing— 

The  other  day,  I  heard 

Annette's  voice,  who. 

Whilst  playing  on  the  bagpipe. 

Was  singing  in  our  woods  : 

0  love,  how  'neath  thy  sway 
One  suffers  poignant  grief  I 

1  may  well  say  it. 
Since  I  feel  it. 

At  the  same  moment 

Young  Lisette, 

In  the  same  rhythm  as  Annette, 

Responded  tenderly : 

0  love,  if  'neath  thy  sway, 

1  suffer  poignant  grief, 

It  is  because  I  dare  not  say 
All  that  I  feel. 


THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND.  52 1 

"Tlrcis  and  PhilSne,  the  lovers  of  those  two  shepherdesses,  accost  them 
to  tell  them  of  their  passion,  and  go  through  a  musical  scene  with  them. 

Chloris.  Leave  us  in  peace,  Philene. 

Cli  MENE.  Tircis,  do  not  stop  my  way. 

TiRCis  AND  Philene.  Ah,  cruel  fair  one,  vouchsafe  one  moment  to 
listen  to  me. 

Climene  AND  Chloris.  But  what  have  you  to  say  ? 

The  two  Shepherds.  Oh  with  what  immortal  flame,  my  heart  bums 
'neath  your  sway. 

The'two  Shepherdesses.  That  is  nothing  new.  You  have  told  me 
so  a  thousand  times. 

Philene.  ( To  Chloris).  What  I  do  you  wish  me  to  love  all  my  lifetime 
and  obtain  nothing  ? 

Chloris.  No,  that  is  not  my  wish.     Love  no  longer;  I  am  satisfied. 

Tircis.  {To  Climene).  Heaven  forces  me  to  pay  you  the  homage,  of 
which  all  these  woods  are  witness. 

Climene.  Then  it  is  for  Heaven,  since  he  constrains  you,  to  pay  you 
for  your  trouble. 

Philene.  ( To  Chloris).  It  is  by  your  extraordinary  merits,  that  you 
have  won  my  affection. 

Chloris.  If  I  deserve  to  be  loved,  I  owe  nought  to  your  affection. 

The  two  Shepherds.  The  dazzle  of  your  eyes  kills  me. 

The  two  Shepherdesses.  Then  turn  away  from  me. 

The  two  Shepherds.  But  I  like  to  look  at  them. 

The  two  Shepherdesses.  Then,  shepherd,  do  not  complain. 

Philene.  Ah  !  charming  Climene  1 

Tircis.  Ah  !  charming  Chloris  ! 

Philene.  {To  Climene).  Render  her  a  little  more  human  towards 
me. 

Tircis.  ( To  Chloris).  Make  her  less  contemptuous  towards  me. 

Climene.  ( To  Chloris).  Be  sensible  to  the  love  that  Philene  has  for 
you. 

Chloris.  (7b  Climene).  Be  sensible  to  the  ardour  by  which  Tircis  is 
smitten. 

Climene.  ( To  Chloris).  If  you  will  show  me  your  example,  shepherd- 
ess, perhaps  I  shall  follow  it. 

Chloris.  {To  Climene).  If  you  will  resolve  to  go  first,  it  is  possible 
that  I  may  follow  you. 

Climene.  {To  Philene).  Farewell,  shepherd. 

Chloris.  ( To  Tircis).  Farewell,  shepherd. 

Climene.  (  To  Philene).  Await  a  favourable  turn. 

Chloris.  {To  Tircis).  Await  a  sweet  success  for  the  grief  which  you 
feel. 

Tircis.  I  await  no  remedy. 

Philene.  And  I  await  nought  but  death. 

Tircis  and  Philene.  Since  we  are  doomed  to  languish  under  such 
disgrace,  let  us,  by  dying,  make  an  end  to  our  grievous  sighing. 

'•  These  two  shepherds  retire,  their  hearts  big  with  grief  and  despair ; 
and,  following  up  this  music,  the  first  act  of  the  comedy  in  prose 
begins.  .   ,  v.     .       . 

"  The  subject  of  it  is,  that  a  rich  farmer,  having  married  the  daughter 
of  a  country  gentleman,  gets  nothing  but  contempt  from  his  wife,  as  well 
as  from  his  father-in-law  and  mother-in-law,  who  had  only  accepted  him 
as  their  son-in-law  for  his  large  property. 


522  GEORGE  DANDIN ;    OR, 

"  The  whole  of  this  piece  is  treated  in  the  same  style  in  which  the 
sieur  de  Moliere  is  accustomed  to  construct  his  other  stage  plays ;  which 
means,  that  he  portrays  in  the  most  natural  colours  the  characters  of  the 
personages  whom  he  introduces  ;  so  much  so,  that  nothing  has  ever  been 
seen  more  closely  resembling  the  vexations  in  which  people  often  find 
themselves  who  marry  above  their  station,  than  what  he  has  written  ;  and 
when  he  depicts  the  humour  and  manners  of  certain  provincial  nobles,  he 
forms  no  traits  but  what  perfectly  convey  their  true  portraits.  At  the 
end  of  the  act  the  peasant  is  interrupted  by  a  shepherdess,  who  comes  to 
tell  him  of  the  despair  of  the  two  shepherds ;  but  being  troubled  with 
other  concerns,  he  leaves  her  in  anger  ;  thereupon  Chloris  enters,  lament- 
ing the  death  of  her  lover  in  the  following  verses  . — 

Ah  !  mortal  grief, 

What  else  can  still  befall  me  ? 

Flow  on,  flow  on,  my  tears ; 

I  cannot  shed  too  many. 
Why  does  a  tyrannical  honour 
Hold  our  soul  bound  in  slavery  ? 
Alas  !  in  order  to  satisfy  its  cruel  harshness, 
I  have  driven  my  lover  to  abandon  life. 

Ah !    mortal  grief! 

What  else  can  still  befall  me? 

Flow  on,  flow  on,  my  tears  ; 

1  cannot  shed  too  many. 
Can  I  ever  forgive  myself,  in  this  fatal  affair. 
The  severe  coolness  with  which  I  had  armed  myself? 
Why  then,  my  dear  lover  !  have  I  given  you  up  to  deatht 
Is  that,  alas  !  the  price  for  having  loved  me  so  much' 

Ah  !  mortal  grief! 

What  else  can  still  befall  me  ? 

Flow  on,  flow  on,  my  tears ; 

I  cannot  shed  too  many. 

"  After  this  lament  began  the  second  act  of  the  prose  comedy.  It  is  a 
continuation  of  the  annoyances  of  the  manied  peasant,  who  is  once  more 
interrupted  by  the  same  shepherdess,  who  comes  to  tell  him  that  Tircis 
and  Philene  are  not  dead,  but  have  been  saved  by  the  boatmen  who  ac- 
company her.  The  peasant,  worried  by  all  these  importunities,  retires 
and  leaves  the  place  free  to  the  boatmen,  who,  delighted  with  the  reward 
they  have  received,  execute  a  dance,  and  go  through  various  evolutions 
with  their  boat  hooks,  after  which  the  third  act  of  the  prose  comedy  is 
played. 

"  In  this  last  act,  the  peasant  is  seen  overwhelmed  with  grief,  through 
the  bad  behaviour  of  his  wife.  Finally,  one  of  his  friends  advises  him  to 
drown  his  sorrows  in  the  wine-cup.  and  takes  him  with  him  to  join  his 
troupe,  having  just  perceived  the  advent  of  the  crowd  of  amorous  shep>- 
herds,  who  enter  and  begin  to  celebrate,  with  songs  and  dances,  the  power 
of  Love. 

"  Here  the  scenery  is  changed  instantaneously;  and  it  is  hardly  to  be 
conceived  how  so  many  real  water-jets  disappear  so  suddenly,  or  by  what 
artifice,  instead  of  all  the  alleys  and  harbours,  one  sees  nothing  but  grand 
rocks,  interspersed  with  trees,  on  which  are  shepherds  who  dance,  and  play 
on  all  sorts  of  instruments.  Chloris  is  the  first  to  join  her  voice  to  the 
sound  of  the  flutes  and  bagpipes. 

Chloris. 
In  this  spot  the  shadow  of  the  elms 
Imparts  a  freshness  to  the  grass  ; 
And  the  banks  of  those  streams 
Are  brilliant  with  a  thousand  flowerets. 


523 


THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND. 

Which  are  reflected  in  the  water. 
Shepherds,  take  your  bagpipes,  ' 
Attune  your  piping  reeds. 
And  let  us  mix  our  songs 
With  those  of  the  little  birds. 
Zephyr,  through  these  streams 
Takes  a  thousand  secret  windings. 
And  the  young  nightingales 
Impart  their  love- breathing  ditties 
To  the  tender  branches. 
Shepherds,  take  your  bagpipes. 
Attune  your  piping  reeds. 
And  let  us  mix  our  songs 
/  With  those  of  the  little  birds. 

"While  the  music  continues  to  charm  the  ears,  the  eyes  are  no  less 
agreeably  occupied  in  seeing  several  elegantly  dressed  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  perform  a  dance,  while  Clim^ne  sings 

Ah  I  how  sweet  is  it,  charming  Sylvia. 
Ah  !  how  sweet  is  it  to  be  inflamed  by  love. 
That  time  of  life,  which  is  not  spent  like  this 
Should  be  deducted  from  our  days. 
Ckloris. 
Ah  !  the  sweet  days  which  Love  vouchsafes  tis. 
When  his  burning  torch  unites  two  hearts! 
Is  there  either  glory  or  crown 
Which  can  compare  with  his  least  delights? 

Tircis. 
How  unjustly  we  complain  of  a  martyrdom 
Which  is  followed  by  such  sweet  delights  I 

PhiUne. 
One  moment's  happiness,  in  love's  empire. 
Repays  ten  years  of  sighing. 

All  together. 
Let  us  all  sing  Love's  admirable  power ; 
In  this  spot  let  us  all  sing 
His  glorious  charms. 
He  is  the  most  amiable. 
As  well  as  the  greatest  of  all  the  gods. 

"At  these  words,  there  was  seen  to  approach,  from  the  back  of  the 
stage,  a  great  rock,  planted  with  trees,  on  which  was  seated  the  whole 
troupe  of  Bacchus,  composed  of  forty  satyrs.  One  of  them  obtrudes  his 
head,  and  proudly  sings  the  following  words  : 

Stay !  this  is  too  much  to  venture. 
Another  god,  whose  edicts  we  follow. 
Opposes  himself  to  the  honour,  which 
Your  pipes  and  voices  dare  offer  unto  Love. 
To  such  exalted  titles  Bacchus  alone  pretends  ; 
And  we  are  here  to  defend  his  rights 

Chorus  of  Satyrs. 
We  the  delightful  sway  of  Bacchus  follow 
In  every  spot  we  bow 
To  his  glorious  attractions 
He  is  the  most  amiable. 
And  greatest  of  all  gods. 

"  Several  of  the  Bacchus  party  accompany  the  music  with  their  dance ; 
and  then  was  seen  a  combat  between  the  Bacchanalian  dancers  and  sing- 
ers, and  those  who  upheld  the  honour  of  Love. 


524  GEORGE  dandin;  or, 

Ckloris. 
It  is  Spring  wliich  restores  life 
To  our  fields  strewn  with  flowers. 
But  it  is  Love  and  his  torch 
That  re-animates  our  hearts. 

A/ollcnver  of  Bacchus. 
The  sun  disperses  the  shadows 
With  which  the  Heavens  are  obscured. 
And  from  the  most  sombre  hearts 
Bacchus  drives  care  away. 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 
Bacchus  is  worshipped,  on  the  earth  and  on  the  waves 

The  followers  of  Love. 
And  Love  is  the  god  who  is  adored  everywhere. 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 
Bacchus  has  yoked  beneath  his  sway  the  whole  woild 

The  followers  of  Love. 
And  Love  has  vanquished  gods  as  well  as  men. 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 
Nothing  can  equal  his  matchless  sweetness 

The  followers  of  Love. 
Nothing  can  equal  his  precious  charms. 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 
Fie  upon  Love  and  upon  his  flames. 

The  followers  of  Love. 
Ah  !  what  pleasure  it  is  to  love  I 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 
Ah  I  what  pleasure  it  is  to  drink  I 

The  followers  of  Love. 

To  him  who  lives  without  love,  life  has  no  charms 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 

To  live  and  not  drink  is  simply  to  die. 

The  followers  of  Love. 

Sweet,  charming  bonds  I 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 

Sweetest  of  victories. 

Thefolloivers  of  Love. 

Ah  I  what  pleasure  it  is  to  love  t 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 
Ah  I  what  pleasure  it  is  to  drink  t 

Thf  two  Chorusses  together. 

No,  no,  it  is  a  mistake. 

The  greatest  god  of  all  .  .  . 

The  followers  of  Love. 

Is  Love. 

The  Bacchanalian  Chorus. 

Is  Bacchus. 

"  Upon  this  a  shepherd  arrives,  who  throws  himself  between  the  two 
contending  parties  to  separate  them,  and  who  sings  these  verses. 

Shepherds  !  this  is  too  much.     He!   why  this  contention? 

Let  reason  make  but  one  assembly  of  us. 

Love  has  his  charms,  Bacchus  has  his  attractions. 

They  are  two  deities,  who  go  very  well  together; 

Let  us  not  divide  them. 


THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  $2$ 

The  two  Chorusses, 

Let  us  therefore  join  their  amiable  attractions. 
Let  us  join  our  voices  in  this  delightful  spot. 
And  let  us  make  the  surrounding  echoes  repeat 
That  naught  is  sweeter  than  Bacchus  and  Love. 

"All  these  dancers  join  together,  and  amidst  the  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses are  seen  four  followers  of  Bacchus,  with  thyrses,  and  four 
bacchantes,  carrying  a  kind  of  tambourines,  which  are  intended  to  rep- 
resent the  sieves,  formerly  used  at  the  feasts  of  Bacchus.  With  these 
thyrses  the  followers  strike  on  the  sieves  of  the  bacchantes,  and  arrange 
different  postures,  while  the  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  dance  more 
calmly. 

*'  It  may  be  safely  asserted  that  in  this  work,  the  sieur  Lulli  has  found 
the  secret  of  satisfying  and  delighting  everybody,  for  never  has  anything 
so  beautiful  and  so  well  conceived  been  witnessed.  As  regards  the  dances, 
there  are  no  steps,  but  what  express  the  action  which  the  dancers  are  to 
carry  out,  and  no  gestures  but  what  are  as  so  many  unspoken  words.  If 
we  come  to  judge  the  music,  there  is  nothing  but  what  conveys  perfectly 
the  passions,  and  which  does  enchant  the  spectators. 

"  But  what  had  never  been  seen  before  is  the  harmony  of  voices  so 
agreeable,  the  symphony  of  the  instruments,  the  beautiful  blending  of  the 
different  chorusses,  the  sweet  songs,  the  dialogues  so  tender  and  amorous 
those  echoes ;  and,  in  short,  the  admirable  management  in  every  part,  in 
which,  from  the  first  recitals,  the  music  goes  on  increasing,  from  having 
begun  with  one  single  voice,  ending  in  a  concert  of  nearly  a  hundred 
persons,  which  on  one  stage,  and  at  the  same  time,  were  seen  to  join 
their  instruments,  their  voices,  and  their  movements  in  the  finale  of  the 
piece,  leaving  everybody  in  such  an  admiration  as  would  be  difficult  to 
express." 

The  narrative  then  continues  to  describe  the  beauty  of  the  decorations, 
gives  the  name  of  the  ladies  who  were  honoured  with  an  invitation  to  the 
table  of  the  king  to  supper,' — Louis  XIV.  and  his  brother,  being  the  only  two 
gentlemen — gets  enthusiastic  over  the  different  dishes,  and  a  wonderful  rock 
on  which  was  stuck  pastry,  preserves,  and  candied  fruit  "  which  seemed 
to  grow  among  the  stones  and  to  belong  to  it,"  tells  us  that  the  queen 
presided  at  one  table,  and  that  there  were  a  great  many  other  tables  laden 
with  eatables,  wines,  liqueurs,  and  many  other  delicacies  "  which  showed 
that  the  magnificence  of  the  king  was  lavished  everywhere,"  becomes 
quite  lyric  when  giving  the  details  of  a  room  made  of  foliage,  in  which 
were  waterworks  wonderful  to  behold ;  and  in  which  their  Majesties  and 
the  whole  court  had  a  ball ;  and  is  full  of  fervour  when  graphically  deline- 
ating the  astonishing  fireworks,  when  all  kinds  of  monsters  vomited  rock- 
ets, &c. 

M.  Felibien  ends  thus : — "  People  can  see  that  his  Majesty  performs 
all  his  actions  with  equal  grandeur,  and  that  he  is  inimitable,  whether 
in  peace  or  in  war.  However  much  I  have  endeavoured  to  describe 
this  beautiful  fete,  I  acknowledge  that  my  description  is  very  imper- 
fect :  people  cannot  form  any  idea  whatever,  by  what  I  have  written,  of 
the  reality. 

»  Among  the  ladies  invited  at  the  king's  table  I  see  the  name  of  the  Duchess  de 
la  Valliere,  who  was  then  only  tolerated,  but  not  that  of  Madame  de  Montespan, 
at  that  time  the  Grand  Monargue's  mistress. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

George  Dandin,  a  rich  farmer,  husband  to  Angelique.*' 
M.  DE  SOTENVILLE,  a  country  gentleman^  Angelique' s  father. 
Clitandre,  in  love  with  Angelique. 
LuBiN,  a  peasant,  Clitandre' s  servant 
Colin,  George  Dandin' s  servant. 
Angelique,  George  Dandin' s  wife. 
Madam  de  Sotenville. 
Claudine,  Angelique' s  maid. 

The  Scene  is  before  George  Dandin's  House  in  the 
Country. 


*  Moli^re  played  this  part  himself.  His  dress  for  this  part  consisted, 
according  to  M.  E.  Soulie's  inventory,  so  often  quoted,  of  "  breeches  and 
cloak  of  light  brown  taffeta,  with  collar  of  the  same;  the  whole  adorned 
with  lace  and  silver  buttons,  a  belt  of  the  same  ;  a  little  doublet  of  crim- 
son silk;  another  doublet  of  brocade  of  different  colours  and  silver  lace, 
to  wear  over  it ;  a  large  ruff  and  shoes."  Dandin  is,  according  to  Nicot, 
Trisor  de  la  lang-ue  fratifaise,  published  in  1606,  used  to  designate  a  man 
who  foolishly  and  open-mouthed  stares  about,  tneptus  and  insipidus. 
Rabelais  uses  this  word  in  the  twenty-fifth  chapter  of  the  first  book  of 
Gargantua,  which  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart  translates  "  ninny  lobcock."  He 
employs  Dandin  also  as  the  proper  name  of  a  judge  and  his  son,  because 
it  is  supposed  that  this  judge  used  to  dangle  his  legs  about,  just  as  the 
sound  of  the  bells  seemed  to  go,  din,  dan,  din  {Pantagruel,  3,  41).  Racine 
calls  his  judge  in  the  Plaideurs,  Perrin  Dandin,  so  does  La  Fontaine  in  his 
fable  of  L Huttre  et  les  Plaideurs.  In  old  French,  dandeau  was  said  of  a 
wilful  cuckold,  Etienne  Pasquier  (152Q-161O  connects  it  w'th  dindan, 
the  noise  produced  by  ringing  the  bells  ;  and  Hensleigh  WedcrNvood,  in 
his  Dictionary  of  English  Etymology,  states  that  the  French  words  dodiner, 
to  rock,  to  shake  ;  dandiner,  to  sway  the  body  to  and  fro ;  dodeliner.  to 
rock  or  jog  up  and  down,  to  dandle ;  dondellner,  to  wag  the  head ;  and 
the  Italian  dondolare,  to  dandle  a  child,  to  loiter ;  and  dnndola,  a  toy.  a 
child's  playing  baby,  are  all  more  or  less  connected  with  the  English 
words  "  dandle  "and  "  dandy." 


GEORGE  DANDIN;  OR.  THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND. 

{GEORGE  DANDIN:    OU,  LE  MARI  CONFONDU.) 
ACT    I. 

Scene  I. — George  Dandin,  alone. 

Ah  !  what  a  strange  thing  it  is  to  be  a  woman  of  quality* 
and  a  wife!  and  what  an  instructive  lesson  my  marriage  is 
to  all  peasants  who  wish  to  raise  themselves  above  their 
condition,  and  to  ally  themselves,  as  I  have  done,  to  a  no- 
bleman's family.  Nobility,  in  itself,  is  good;  it  is  a, thing 
worthy  of  respect,  surely :  but  it  is  attended  by  so  many 
ugly  circumstances,  that  it  is  better  not  to  come  in  contact 
with  it.  I  have  become  very  knowing  on  that  subject,  to 
my  cost,  and  understand  now  the  way  of  noblemen,  when 
they  allow  us  to  enter  their  families.  We  ourselves  count 
for  very  little  in  the  match :  they  only  marry  our  property ; 
and  I  would  have  done  much  better,  rich  as  I  am,  to  marry 
a  good  and  honest  peasant's  daughter,  than  to  take  a  wife 
who  holds  herself  above  me,  is  ashamed  to  bear  my  name, 
and  imagines  that  with  all  my  wealth  I  have  not  paid  dear 
enough  for  the  honour  of  being  her  husband.  George 
Dandin  !  George  Dandin !  you  have  committed  the  great- 
est folly  in  the  world.     My  home  has  become  unbearable 

6  The  orisrinal  hssfemme  demoiselle.     See  Vol.  I,,  note  14,  page  xxxii. 
VOL.  II.  21  529 


53°  GEORGE  DANDIN  ;   OR,  [act  i. 

to  me  now,  and  I  never  enter  it  without  finding  some  an- 
noyance.* 

Scene  II. — George  Dandin,  Lubin. 

Dan.  {Aside,  seeing  Lubin  come  out  of  his  house).  What 
the  devil  can  that  fellow  want  in  my  house? 

LuB.  {Aside,  -perceiving  George  Dandin).  There  is  some 
one  looking  at  me. 

Dan.  {Aside).  He  does  not  know  me. 

LuB.  {Aside).  He  suspects  something. 

Dan.  {Aside).  Bless  my  soul !  he  will  barely  nod  to  me. 

LuB.  {Aside).  I  am  afraid  he  will  say  that  he  saw  me 
come  from  within. 

Dan.  Good  day  to  you. 

LuB.  Your  servant. 

Dan.  You  do  not  belong  to  this  place,  I  believe? 

LuB.  No :  I  have  come  only  to  see  the  feast  to-morrow. 

Dan.  Just  tell  me,  if  you  please,  did  not  you  come  out 
thence  ? 

LuB.  Hush! 

Dan.  Why  so? 

LuB.  Be  quiet ! 

Dan.  What  is  the  matter? 

LuB.  Not  a  word !  You  must  not  say  that  you  saw  me 
come  out  there. 

Dan.  Why? 

LuB.  Good  Heavens!  because  .    . 

Dan.  Well?    What? 

LuB.  Softly.     I  am  afraid  they  will  hear  us. 

Dan.   Not  at  all,  not  at  all. 

LuB.  Because  I  have  just  been  delivering  a  message  to 
the  mistress  of  the  house  from  a  certain  gentleman  who  has 
an  eye  upon  her;  and  it  must  not  be  known.  Do  you 
understand? 

Dan.  Yes. 

LuB.  I  have  been  told  to  take  care  that  no  one  should 
see  me ;  and  let  me  beg  of  you,  at  least,  not  to  say  that 
you  have  seen  me. 

•  Strepsiades,  the  principal  character  of  Aristophanes*  comedy,  The 
Clouds,  utters  the  same  complaint,  and  for  the  same  reason. 


SCENE  ii.J  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  531 

Dan.  I  do  not  mean  to. 

LuB.  I  am  very  glad  to  do  things  secretly,  as  I  have 
been  told. 

Dan.  That  is  all  right. 

LuB.  The  husband,  from  what  they  tell  me,  is  dread- 
fully jealous,  who  will  not  allow  his  wife  to  be  made  love 
to ;  and  there  would  be  the  devil  to  pay  if  it  came  to  his 
ears.     Now,  do  you  understand  ? 

Dan.  Very  well. 

LuB.  He  is  to  know  nothing  of  all  this. 

Dan.  To  be  sure. 

LuB.  They  wish  to  deceive  him  quietly.  You  under- 
stand me  ? 

Dan.  Perfectly. 

LuB.  If  you  go  and  say  that  you  have  seen  me  come 
out  of  his  house,  you  will  spoil  the  whole  affair.  Do  you 
understand  ? 

Dan.  Indeed,  I  do.  What  is  the  name  of  him  who  sent 
you  there  ? 

LuB.  He  is  our  squire,  Viscount  of  .  .  .  somebody  .  .  . 
By  my  troth !  I  never  remember  how  the  deuce  they 
manage  to  pronounce  that  name.    Mr.  Cli .  .  .  Clitandre. 

Dan.  Is  it  that  young  courtier  who  lives  .    .    .  ? 

LuB.  Yes  ;  not  far  from  those  trees. 

Dan,  {Aside).  That  is  why  this  civil  young  spark  has 
come  to  live  so  close  to  me.  I  smell  a  rat,  certainly ;  and 
his  vicinity  had  already  given  me  some  suspicions. 

LuB.  Gadzooks  !  he  is  the  most  gentlemanlike  man  you 
ever  met  with.  He  has  given  me  three  gold  pieces  only 
to  go  and  tell  the  lady  that  he  is  in  love  with  her,  and  that 
he  very  much  wishes  the  honour  of  being  able  to  speak 
with  her.  It  was  not  much  trouble  to  be  so  well  paid  for  it, 
compared  with  a  day's  work,  for  which  I  get  only  ten  sous. 

Dan.  Well !  have  you  delivered  your  message  ? 

LuB.  Yes.  I  found  inside  a  certain  Claudine,  who  un- 
derstood directly  what  I  wanted,  and  who  gained  me 
speech  with  her  mistress. 

Dan.   {Aside).  Oh  !  what  a  jade  that  maid  is  ! 

LuB.  Odds  bobs !  this  Claudine  is  as  pretty  as  can  be : 
I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  and  it  will  be  her  fault  if  we 
are  not  married. 


532  GEORGE  DANDIN;   or,  [acti, 

Dan.  But  what  answer  has  the  mistress  made  to  this 
Mr.  Courtier? 

LuB.  She  has  told  me  to  tell  hirn  .  .  .  stop  ;  I  do  not 
know  if  I  shall  remember  it  all ;  that  she  is  very  much 
obliged  to  him  for  his  affection  towards  her,  and  that  he 
.must  be  very  careful  not  to  show  it,  on  account  of  her 
husband,  who  is  whimsical,  and  that  he  must  bethink  him- 
self to  invent  something,  so  that  they  may  converse  with 
each  other. 

Dan.  {Aside).   Ah  !  baggage  of  a  wife  !' 

LuB.  Jeminy !  that  will  be  funny ;  for  the  husband  will 
not  dream  of  the  trick  ;  that  is  the  best  of  it,  and  he  will 
be  taken  in  for  all  his  jealousy.     Is  it  not  so  ? 

Dan.  That  is  true. 

LuB.  Good-bye.  Keep  silence,  mind  !  Keep  the  secret 
well,  so  that  the  husband  may  not  know  of  it. 

Dan.  Yes,  yes. 

LuB.  As  for  myself,  I  shall  pretend  to  know  nothing. 
I  am  a  cunning  fellow,  and  people  would  not  think  that  I 
have  anything  to  do  with  it. 

Scene  III. — George  Dandin,  alone. 

Well !  George  Dandin,  you  see  how  your  wife  treats 
you  !  That  is  your  reward  for  having  wished  to  marry  a 
lady  of  quality  !  You  are  completely  done  for,  ®  without 
being  able  to  revenge  yourself;  and  nobility  ties  your  hands. 
Equality  of  condition  leaves  the  husband  at  any  rate  the 
freedom  of  resentment ;  and  if  this  were  a  country  wench, 
you  would  now  have  full  liberty  to  right  yourself  by  giving 
her  a  good  thrashing.  But  you  wished  to  have  a  taste  of 
nobility;  and  you  were  tired  of  being  master  in  your  own 
house.  Ah  !  I  am  bursting  with  rage,  and  would  willingly 
box  my  own  ears.  What !  to  listen  impudently  to  the 
declaration  of  some  fop,  and  to  promise  him  at  the  same 

T  Aime- Martin  says  that  the  resemblance  between  George  Dandin  and 
The  School  for  Wives  (see  Vol.  I.)  has  struck  all  commentators  of  Mo- 
lidre.  Dandin  is  always  told  of  the  faithlessness  of  his  wife,  just  as 
Amolphe  is  about  the  stratagems  of  Agnls.  Neither  of  them,  however, 
succeeds  in  surprisng  the  guilty. 

^  The  original  has  L'on  vous  accommode  de  foutes  pieces,  because,  in 
former  times,  a  knight  completely  armed  was  called  so. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  533 

time  that  his  love  would  be  returned !  Zounds  !  I  will 
not  let  such  an  opportunity  slip  me.  I  must,  at  this  very 
moment,  go  and  complain  to  her  father  and  mother,  and 
take  them  to  witness,  at  all  events,  of  the  vexations  and 
annoyance  which  their  daughter  causes  me.  But  here 
they   come,  just  at  the  right  moment. 

Scene  IV. — M.  de  Sotenville,  Madam  de  Sotenville, 
George  Dandin. 

M.  DE  S.  What  is  the  matter,  son-in-law?  You  seem 
quite  upset. 

Dan.  So  I  have  cause   to  be,  and  .     . 

Mad.  de  S.  Good  Heavens !  son-in-law,  how  unpolite 
you  are,  not  to  bow  to  people  when  you  approach  them  ! 

Dan.  Upon  my  word  !  mother-in-law,  it  is  because  I 
have  other  matters  to  think  of;  and  .    .    . 

Mad.  de  S.  Again  !  Is  it  possible,  son-in-law,  that  you 
know  fashion  so  little,  and  is  there  no  teaching  you  how 
to  behave  among  people  of  quality  ? 

Dan.  What  do  you  mean? 

Mad.  de  S  Will  you  never  divest  yourself,  with  me,  of 
the  familiarity  of  that  word,  mother-in-law,  and  can  you 
not  accustom  yourself  to  call  me  Madam? 

Dan.  Zounds  !  If  you  call  me  your  son-in-law,  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  may  call  you  my  mother-in  law. 

Mad.  de  S.  That  remains  to  be  seen,  and  the  case  is 
not  the  same.  Please  to  understand  that  it  is  not  for  you 
to  use  that  word  with  a  person  of  my  rank ;  that,  although 
you  may  be  our  son-in-law,  there  is  a  great  difference  be- 
tween us,  and  that  you  ought  to  know  your  place. 

M  DE  S.   That  is  enough,  my  love;  let  us  drop  that. 

Mad.  de  S.  Good  Heavens !  M.  de  Sotenville,  you  are 
more  indulgent  than  any  one  else,  and  you  do  not  know 
how  to  make  people  give  you  your  due. 

M.  de  S.  Egad  !  I  beg  your  pardon  :  I  do  not  require 
any  lessons  upon  that  subject ;  and  during  my  life,  I  have 
shown  by  a  score  of  energetic  actions  that  I  am  not  a  man 
ever  to  abate  a  tittle  of  my  pretensions ;  but  a  hint  is  quite 
sufficient  for  him.  Let  us  know  a  little,  son-in-law,  what 
you  have  got  on  your  mind. 


534  GEORGE  DANDIN;   OR,  [acti. 

Dan.  Since  I  am  to  speak  categorically,  I  shall  tell  you, 
M.  de  Sotenville,  that  I  have  cause  to  .    .    . 

M,  DE  S.  Gently,  son-in-law.  Let  me  tell  you  that  it 
is  not  respectful  to  address  people  by  their  names,  and 
that  we  must  only  say,  "Sir,"  to  those  above  us. 

Dan.  Well  then,  only  say  Sir,  and  no  longer  M.  de 
Sotenville,  I  must  tell  you  that  my  wife  gives  me  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  Softly !  Let  me  also  tell  you  that  you  ought 
not  to  say  my  wife  when  you  speak  of  our  daughter. 

Dan.  I  have  no  patience !  What !  is  not  my  wife  my 
wife? 

Mad.  de  S.  Yes,  son-in-law,  she  is  your  wife;  but  you 
must  not  call  her  so.  You  could  not  do  more,  if  you  had 
married  one  of  your  equals. 

Dan.  {Aside).  Ah  !  George  Dandin,  what  a  hole  you 
have  got  into !  (^Alaud).  For  gracious  sake,  put  your 
gentility  aside  for  a  moment,  and  allow  me  now  to  speak 
to  you  as  best  I  can.  (Aside).  A  plague  upon  all  this 
nonsensical  tyranny!  {To  M.  de  Sotenville).  I  tell  you 
then  that  I  am  very  much  dissatisfied  with  my  marriage. 

M.  DE  S.  And  the  reason,  son-in-law? 

Mad.  de  S.  What !  to  speak  thus  of  an  affair  from 
which  you  have  derived  such  great  advantages ! 

Dan.  And  what  advantages.  Madam,  since  "Madam" 
it  is  to  be  ?  The  bargain  has  not  been  a  bad  one  for  you ; 
for,  by  your  leave,  your  affairs,  had  it  not  been  for  me, 
would  have  been  in  a  very  dilapidated  condition,  and  my 
money  has  served  to  stop  pretty  large  gaps ;  but,  as  for 
myself,  what  have  I  profited  by  it,  pray,  unless  it  be  the 
lengthening  of  my  name,  and  instead  of  being  George 
Dandin,  to  have  received,  through  you,  the  title  of  M.  de 
La  Dandiniere  ? 

M.  DE  S.  Do  you  reckon  for  nothing,  son-in-law,  the 
advantage  of  being  allied  to  the  house  of  Sotenville? 

Mad.  de  S.  And  to  that  of  La  Prudoterie,  from  which 
I  have  the  honour  of  being  descended ;  a  house  where  the 
females  ennoble,  and  which,  by  that  valuable  privilege, 
will  make  your  sons  noblemen.® 

9  The  contrarv  was  generally  the  law  in  France ;  for  if  a  lady  of  noble 
birth  married  a  commoner,  she  lost  her  own  rank,  and  her  children  be- 
came commoners.     But  exceptionally,  it  was  the  custom  in  the  province 


SCKNK  IV.]  THE  ABASHED    HUSBAND.  535 

Dan.  Oh !  that  is  good,  my  sons  shall  be  noblemen : 
but  I  shall  be  myself  a  cuckold,  unless  care  be  taken. 

Mad.  de  S.  What  does  this  mean,  son-in-law  ? 

Dan.  It  means  that  your  daughter  does  not  behave  as 
a  wife  ought  to  do,  and  that  she  does  things  which  are 
contrary  to  honour. 

Mad.  de  S.  Gently.  Take  care  what  you  are  saying. 
My  daughter  belongs  to  a  race  too  full  of  honour,  ever  to 
do  aught  that  might  offend  honesty ;  and  as  for  the  house 
of  La  Prudoterie,  thank  Heaven,  it  has  been  observed 
that  for  more  than  three  hundred  years  no  woman  has 
been  talked  about. 

M.  de  S.  Egad !  there  has  never  been  a  flirt  in  the 
house  of  Sotenville ;  and  bravery  is  not  more  hereditary 
in  the  males  than  chastity  in  the  females. 

Mad.  de  S.  We  have  had  a  Jacqueline  de  la  Prudoterie, 
who  would  never  be  the  mistress  of  a  duke  and  peer, 
governor  of  our  province. 

M.  de  S.  There  was  a  Mathurine  de  Sotenville  who 
refused  twenty  thousand  crowns  from  a  favourite  of  the 
King,  who  asked  only  for  the  favour  of  speaking  to  her. 

Dan.  Well !  your  daughter  is  not  so  straight-laced  as 
all  that ;  and  she  has  grown  tractable  since  she  has  been 
with  me. 

M.  DE  S.  Explain  yourself,  son-in-law.  We  are  not 
people  to  support  her  in  any  wrong  actions,  and  we  would 
be  the  first,  her  mother  and  I,  to  do  you  justice. 

Mad.  de  S.  We  do  not  understand  jesting  in  matters 
of  honour;  and  we  have  brought  her  up  in  the  greatest 
possible  strictness. 

Dan.  All  I  can  tell  you  is,  that  there  is  a  certain  court- 
ier thereabout,  whom  you  have  seen,  who  is  in  love  with 
her,  under  my  very  nose,  and  who  has  sent  her  a  declaration 
of  his  love,  to  which  she  has  very  feelingly  listened. 

Mad.  de  S.  By  the  Heavens  above  !    I  would  strangle 


of  Champagne  that  the  children  bom  either  from  a  fether  or  mother  of 
noble  rank,  became  nobles  themselves.  According  to  tradition,  this 
privilege  was  granted  to  the  inhabitants  of  that  province,  because  they 
had  lost  so  many  men  of  high  birth  in  the  battle  of  Fontenay  (841),  near 
Aux«rre,  fought  between  Charles  the  Bald  and  his  brothers. 


53^  GEORGE  DANDIN  ;  OR,  [act  x. 

her  with  my  own  hands,  were  she  to  deviate"  from  her 
mother's  virtuous  path. 

M.  DE  S.  Zounds,  I  would  pass  my  sword  through  her 
body,  and  that  of  her  gallant,  were  she  to  forfeit  her 
honour. 

Dan.  I  have  told  you  what  is  going  on,  to  justify  my 
complaints ;  and  I  ask  you  for  satisfaction  in  this  matter. 

M.  DE  S.  Do  not  torment  yourself:  I  will  get  it  you 
from  both ;  and  I  am  the  man  to  keep  a  tight  hold  over," 
no  matter  whom.  But  are  you  quite  positive  about  what 
you  have  told  us? 

Dax.  Quite. 

M.  DE  S.  Take  great  care;  for,  between  gentlemen, 
these  are  ticklish  subjects;  and  you  must  not  make  a 
mistake. 

Dan.  I  have  said  nothing,  I  tell  you,  but  the  truth. 

M.  DE  S.  My  love,  go  and  talk  to  your  daughter,  while 
I,  with  my  son-in-law,  will  go  and  speak  with  that  man. 

Mad.  DE  S.  Is  it  possible,  my  son,  that  she  could  so  far 
forget  herself,  after  the  good  example  which,  as  you  well 
know,  I  have  set  her. 

M.  DE  S.  We  are  going  to  clear  the  matter  up.  Follow 
me,  son-in-law,  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  You  shall 
see  what  we  are  made  of,  when  people  attack  those  who 
may  belong  to  us. 

Dan.  There  he  is  coming  toward  us. 

Scene  V. — M.  de  Sotenville,  Clitandre,  George 
Dandin. 

M.  DE  S.  Do  you  know  me,  Sir? 

Clit.  Not  that  I  am  aware  of,  Sir. 

M.  DE  S.  My  name  is  the  Baron  de  Sotenville. 

Clit.  I  am  very  happy  to  hear  it. 

M.  DE  S.  My  name  is  well  known  at  court ;  and  in  my 


'"  The  original  has  forli^ner,  an  antiquated  word,  which  means,  liter- 
ally, "  to  deviate  from  the  line."  It  was  £^plied  to  nobles  who  had  de- 
generated. 

"  In  the  original  serrer  U  bouton,  literally,  "  to  tighten  the  leathern 
buckle  which  holds  the  reins  together;"  hence,  figuratively,  to  keep  a 
tight  hold  over  any  one. 


v.]  THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND.  537 

youth,  I  had  the  honour  of  being  one  of  the  first  to  distin- 
guish mj'self  in  the  arriere-ban"  at  Nancy. 

Cut.  So  much  the  better. 

M.  DE  S.  My  father,  Jean-Gilles  de  Sotenville,  had  the 
honour  of  assisting  in  person  at  the  great  siege  of  Mont- 
auban." 

Clit.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it. 

M.  DE  S.  And  one  of  my  ancestors,  Bertrand  de  Soten- 
ville, enjoyed  so  much  consideration  in  his  time,  that  he  was 
permitted  to  dispose  of  all  his  property,  to  cross  the  seas. 

Cut.  I  can  easily  believe  it. 

M.  DE  S.  It  has  been  reported  to  me.  Sir,  that  you  are 
in  love  with,  and  iiin  after  a  young  person,  who  is  my 
daughter,  in  whom  I  am  interested  (^pointing  to  George 
Dandiri),  as  well  as  in  this  man  whom  you  see,  who  has 
the  honour  of  being  my  son-in-law. 

Cut.  A\Tio?    I? 

M.  DE  S.  Yes ;  and  I  am  glad  of  the  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  you,  in  order  to  have  this  affair  explained,  if 
you  please. 

Clit.  What  strange  slander  is  this !  Who  has  told  you 
that,  Sir? 

M.  DE  S.  Somebody  who  believes  himself  well  informed. 

Cut.  This  somebody  has  told  a  lie.  I  am  a  gentleman. 
Do  you  think  me  capable,  Sir,  of  such  a  base  act  ?  "What ! 
I,  love  a  yoimg  and  handsome  pei^on  who  has  the  honour 
of  being  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  de  Sotenville!  I 
respect  you  too  much  for  that,  and  am  too  much  your 
humble  servant.     Whoever  has  told  you  this  is  a  fool. 

M.  DE  S.  Now,  son-in-law. 

Dan.  What? 

Cut.  He  is  a  rogue  and  villain.  ** 

M.  DE  S.  {To  George  Dandin).  Answer  him. 

Dan.  Answer  him  yourself. 

Cut.  If  I  knew  who  it  could  be,  I  would  in  your 
presence  run  my  sword  through  his  body. 

M.  DE  S.  {To  George  Dandin).  Support  your  assertion. 

^*  The  arri^re-han  was  the  convocation  originally  made  by  the  King  of 
all  the  nobles  of  his  states,  to  march  against  the  enemy. 

1*  The  siege  alluded  to  here  is  no  doubt  the  one  undertaken  by  Louis 
XIII.  in  1621,  about  a  year  before  Moli^'s  biith. 


53S  GEORGE  DANDIN;  OK,  [act  i. 

Dan.  It  is  fully  supported.     It  is  true, 

Clit.  Is  it  your  son-in-law,  Sir,  who  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  Yes,  it  is  he  himself,  who  complains  to  me 
about  it. 

Cut.  Certainly  he  may  thank  his  stars  for  belonging  to 
you  ;  and  without  that,  I  would  pretty  well  teach  him  to 
talk  in  such  a  manner  about  a  person  like  me. 

Scene  VI. — M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville,  Ang£lique, 
Clitandre,  George  Dandin,  Claudine. 

Mad.  de  S.  With  regard  to  that,  jealousy  is  a  strange 
thing !  I  have  brought  my  daughter  here,  to  clear  the 
matter  up  in  the  presence  of  every  one. 

Clit.  {To  Angilique).  It  is  you  then,  Madam,  who 
have  told  your  husband  that  I  am  in  love  with  you. 

Ang.  I  ?  And  how  could  I  have  told  him  ?  Is  it  so 
then?  I  should  really  like  to  see  you  in  love  with  me. 
Just  attempt  it,  pray ;  you  will  find  out  with  whom  you 
have  to  deal ;  I  advise  you  to  try  the  thing  !  Have  re- 
course, by  way  of  experiment,  to  all  the  lovers'  stratagems : 
just  attempt  to  send  me,  for  the  fun  of  it,  some  messages, 
to  write  me  some  small  love  letters  secretly ;  to  watch  the 
moments  of  my  husband's  absence,  or  when  I  am  going 
out  to  tell  me  of  your  love  :  you  have  only  to  set  about  it, 
I  promise  you  you  shall  be  received  as  you  ought. 

Clit.  Gently,  gently.  Madam ;  there  is  no  need  to  read 
me  such  a  lesson,  or  to  be  so  scandalized.  Who  told  you 
that  I  thought  of  loving  you? 

Ang.  How  do  I  know,  who  told  me  just  now  these 
stories  ? 

Clit.  They  may  say  what  they  like ;  but  you  know  best 
whether  I  ever  spoke  of  love  to  you  when  we  met. 

Ang.  You  should  only  have  done  so,  you  would  have 
been  welcome! 

Clit.  I  assure  you  that  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from 
me ;  that  I  am  not  a  man  to  vex  the  fair ;  and  that  I  re- 
spect you  and  your  parents  too  much,  to  have  even  the 
thought  of  falling  in  love  with  you. 

Mad.  de  S.  {To  George  Dandin.^    Well,  now  you  see  ! 

M.  de  S.  Are  you  satisfied,  son-in-law  ?  What  do  you 
say  to  that  ? 


SCBNK  vn.]  THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND.  539 

Dan.  I  say  that  these  are  cock-and-bull  stories;  that 
I  know  what  I  know;  and  that,  since  I  am  to  speak 
plainly,  she  has  just  now  received  a  message  from  him. 

Ang.  What  !   I  have  received  a  message  ? 

Clit.  I  have  sent  a  message  ? 

Ang.  Claudine  ? 

Cut.  (^To  Claudine).     Is  it  true? 

Clau.  Upon  my  word,  that  is  a  strange  falsehood ! 

Dan.  Hold  your  tongue,  slut  that  you  are.  I  know 
your  tricks ;  and  it  is  you  who  introduced  the  messenger 
just  now. 

Clau.  Who?     I? 

Dan.  Yes,  you.     Do  not  look  so  innocent. 

Clau.  Alas  !  how  full  of  wickedness  people  are  now- 
a-days,  to  suspect  me  thus,  I,  who  am  innocence  itself ! 

Dan.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  bad  lot.  You  pretend  to 
be  a  saint,  but  I  have  known  you  for  a  long  time ;  and 
you  are  a  sly  jade. 

Clau.  {To  Angelique).     Madam,  have  I  .    .    . 

Dan.  Hold  your  tongue,  1  tell  you ;  you  may  bear  the 
brunt  for  all  the  others ;  and  your  father  is  not  a  noble- 
man. 

Ang.  It  is  a  falsehood  so  gross,  and  which  affects  me 
so  much,  that  I  have  not  even  the  strength  to  answer  it. 
It  is  very  horrible  to  be  accused  by  a  husband,  when  one 
has  done  nothing  wrong  to  him  !  Alas  !  if  I  am  to  blame 
at  all,  it  is  for  treating  him  too  well. 

Clau.  Indeed  you  have. 

Ang.  My  great  misfortune  is  that  I  consider  him  too 
much ;  and  would  to  Heaven  that  I  could  tolerate,  as  he 
says,  the  attentions  of  some  one  else  !  I  should  not  be  so 
much  to  be  pitied.  Good-bye  ;  I  withdraw,  and  I  cannot 
longer  bear  to  be  thus  insulted. 

Scene  VII. — M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville,  Clitandre, 
George  Dandin,  Claudine. 

Mad.  de  S.  {To  George  Dandin).  Go,  you  do  not 
deserve  the  virtuous  wife  you  have  got. 

Clau.  Upon  my  word,  he  deserves  that  she  should 
make  his  words  come  true ;  and  if  I  were  in  her  place,  I 
would  not  hesitate  about  it.     {To  Clitandre).    Yes,  sir, 


540  GEORGE  DANDIN;   OR,  [acti. 

you  ought  to  make  love  to  my  mistress,  to  punish  him. 
Insist,  it  is  I  who  tell  you ;  it  will  be  worth  your  while  ; 
and  I  offer  to  assist  you,  since  he  has  already  taxed  me 
with  it.  {Exit  Claudine. 

M.  DE  S.  You  deserve,  son-in-law,  to  have  these  things 
said  to  you ;  and  your  behaviour  sets  every  one  against 
you. 

Mad.  de  S.  Go,  endeavour  to  treat  a  gentlewoman 
better ;  and  take  care  not  to  make  any  more  such  blun- 
ders for  the  future. 

Dan.  {Aside).  It  makes  me  mad  to  be  put  in  the 
wrong,  when  I  am  in  the  right. 

Scene  VIII. — M.  de  Sotenville,   Clitandre,  George 
Dandin. 

Clit.  (To  M.  de  Sotenville).  You  see,  sir,  how  falsely 
I  have  been  accused  ;  you  are  a  gentleman  who  know  the 
punctilios  of  honour ;  and  I  demand  satisfaction  for  the 
insult  that  has  been  offered  to  me. 

Mad.  de  S.  That  is  just ;  and  it  is  the  right  way  of 
proceeding.  Come,  son-in-law,  give  this  gentleman  satis- 
faction. 

Dan.   How  !  satisfaction  ? 

M.  de  S.  Yes,  it  is  right  according  to  usage,  for  having 
wrongly  accused  him. 

Dan.  That  is  something  with  which  I  do  not  at  all 
agree,  that  I  have  wrongly  accused  him ;  and  I  know  well 
enough  what  I  think  of  it. 

M.  DE  S.  That  does  not  matter.  Whatever  thought 
may  remain  in  your  mind,  he  denies  it ;  that  must  satisfy 
people,  and  they  have  no  right  to  complain  of  any  man 
who  gainsays  a  thing. 

Dan.  Thus,  if  I  had  found  him  in  bed  with  my  wife,  he 
would  get  off  by  simply  denying  it  ? 

M.  DE  S.  No  more  arguments.  Make  him  the  apolo- 
gies which  I  tell  you. 

Dan.  I  ?     I  am  to  make  him  apologies  after  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  Come,  I  tell  you  ;  there  is  nothing  to  hesitate 
about,  and  there  is  no  need  of  being  afraid  of  overdoing 
the  thing,  since  you  are  guided  by  me. 


SCENE  viii.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  54I 

Dan.  I  cannot  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  Zounds  !  son-in-law,  do  not  make  me  angry. 
I  shall  be  taking  his  part  against  you.  Come,  be  guided 
by  me. 

Dan,  {Aside).     Ah  !  George  Dandin  ! 

M.  DE  S.  First,  take  your  cap  in  hand :  This  gentleman 
is  a  nobleman,  and  you  are  not. 

Dan.   {Cap  in  hand,  aside).     I  am  boiling  with  rage  ! 

M.  DE  S.   Repeat  after  me  :  Sir  .    .    . 

Dan.  Sir  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  I  crave  your  pardon  .  .  .  {Seeing  that  George 
Dandin  hesitates  to  obey).     Ah  ! 

Dan.  I  crave  your  pardon  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.   For  the  bad  thoughts  which  I  have  had  of  you. 

Dan.  For  the  bad  thoughts  which  I  have  had  of  you. 

M.  DE  S.  It  was  because  I  had  not  the  honour  of  know- 
ing you. 

Dan.  It  was  because  I  had  not  the  honour  of  knowing 
you. 

M.  DE  S.  And  I  beg  you  to  believe  .    .    . 

Dan.  And  I  beg  you  to  believe  .    .    .    • 

M.  DE  S.  That  I  am  your  servant. 

Dan.  Would  you  have  me  to  be  the  servant  of  a  man 
who  wants  to  make  me  a  cuckold  ? 

M.  DE  S.   {Threatening  hitn  again).     Ah  ! 

Cut.  It  is  sufficient.  Sir. 

M.  DE  S.  No.  I  will  have  him  finish  it,  and  that 
everything  should  be  done  in  due  form :  That  I  am  your 
servant. 

Dan.  That  I  am  your  ser-want. 

Cut.  {To  George  Dandin).  Sir,  I  am  yours  with  all 
my  heart ;  and  shall  think  no  more  of  what  has  happened. 
{To  M.  de  SotenviUe).  As  for  you.  Sir,  I  wish  you  good- 
day,  and  am  sorry  that  you  have  had  some  annoyance. 

M.  DE  S.  I  kiss  your  hand;  and,  whenever  you  like, 
shall  give  you  some  sport  in  coursing. 

C]lit.  You  do  me  too  much  honour.     {Exit  Clitandre. 

M.  DE  S.  That  is  how  things  ought  to  be  managed,  son- 
in-law.  Farewell.  Remember  that  you  have  entered  a 
family  that  will  support  you,  and  not  suffer  you  to  be 
affronted. 


542  GEORGE  DANDIN ;   OR,  [act  u. 

Scene  IX. — George  Dandin,  a/one. 

Ah  !  that  I  ,  .  .  You  would  have  it  so,  you  would  have 
it  so ;  George  Dandin,  you  would  have  it  so ;  this  suits 
you  very  nicely,  a,nd  you  are  served  right ;  you  have  pre- 
cisely what  you  deserve.  Come,  everything  depends  only 
on  undeceiving  the  father  and  mother ;  and  perhaps  I 
may  find  some  means  of  succeeding. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  I. — Claudine,  Lubin. 

Clau.  Yes,  I  guessed  well  enough  that  it  must  have 
come  from  you,  and  that  you  told  it  to  some  one,  who 
related  it  to  master. 

LuB.  Upon  my  word,  I  mentioned  only  a  word  of  it, 
as  I  was  passing  by,  to  a  man,  that  he  might  not  say  that 
he  had  seen  me  come  out.  People  must  be  great  chatter- 
boxes in  these  parts ! 

Clau.  Really,  the  Viscount  has  well  chosen  his  man  in 
taking  you  for  his  messenger;  and  he  has  employed  a 
fellow  who  is  very  lucky. 

LuB.  Never  mind,  I  shall  be  more  artful  the  next  time, 
and  take  greater  care. 

Clau.  Yes,  yes,  it  will  be  high  time  ! 

LuB.  Let  us  speak  no  more  of  this.     Listen. 

Clau.  What  am  I  to  listen  to  ? 

LuB.  Turn  your  face  a  little  towards  me. 

Clau.  Well !    what  is  it  ? 

LuB.  Claudine? 

Clau.  Well? 

LuB.  Lack  a-day  !    Do  you  not  know  what  I  mean  ? 

Clau.    No. 

LuB.  I'  faiks  !    I  love  you. 

Clau.   Really? 

I.,UB.  Yes,  the  devil  take  me !  you  may  believe  me,  as 
I  have  sworn  it. 

Clau.  So  much  the  better. 


SCKNH  I.J  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  543 

LuB.  I  feel  my  heart  going  pit-a-pat"  when  I  look 
at  you. 

Clau.  I  am  very  glad  of  it. 

LuB.  What  do  you  do  to  be  so  pretty? 

Clau.  I  do  like  others. 

LuB.  Look  ye  here,  a  nod  is  as  good  as  a  wink  to  a 
blind  horse  ;'*  if  you  like,  you  shall  be  my  wife,  I  shall  be 
your  husband,  and  we  shall  be  man  and  wife  together. 

Clau.  Perhaps  you  will  be  jealous  like  master. 

LuB.  Not  at  all. 

Clau.  As  for  me,  I  hate  your  suspicious  husbands,  and 
I  want  one  who  is  frightened  at  nothing;  one  so  full  of 
confidence  and  so  sure  of  my  chastity,  that  he  could  see 
me  in  the  midst  of  thirty  men  without  being  uneasy. 

LuB.  Very  well ;  I  shall  be  all  that. 

Clau.  It  is  the  silliest  thing  in  the  world  to  mistrust  a 
wife  and  to  torment  her.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that 
one  gains  nothing  Ijy  it :  it  only  makes  us  think  of  harm; 
and  most  frequently  husbands  make  themselves  what  they 
are  by  their  hubbub. 

LuB.  Well !  I  shall  leave  you  free  to  do  whatever  you 
like. 

Clau.  That  is  what  you  should  do  in  order  not  to  be 
deceived.  When  a  husband  relies  on  our  discretion,  we 
take  no  more  liberty  than  what  is  right.  It  is  just  with 
them  as  with  those  who  open  their  purses  to  us,  saying : 
take.  We  use  them  discreetly,  and  content  ourselves  with 
what  is  right ;  but  those  who  cavil  with  us,  we  try  to  fleece 
them,  and  do  not  spare  them. 

LuB.  Be  easy,  I  shall  be  like  those  who  open  their 
purse;  and  you  have  only  to  marry  me. 

Clau.  Very  well !    we  shall  see. 

LuB.  Come  here,  Claudine. 

Clau.  What  do  you  want  ? 

LuB.   Come  here,  I  tell  you. 

Clau.  Softly.     I  do  not  like  fumblers. 

1*  The  original  has 7V  tne  sens  tout  tribouiller  le  casur.  Tribouiller,  to 
disturb,  to  stir,  is  a  very  old  French  verb. 

15  The  original  has  il  ne  faut  point  tant  de  beurre  pour  /aire  utt 
quarteron :  not  so  much  butter  is  needed  to  make  a  quarter  of  a 
pound. 


544  GEORGE  DANDIN  ;   OR,  [-act  n. 

LuB.  Just  a  little  bit  of  coddling. 

Clau.  Let  me  alone,  I  tell  you ;  I  do  not  understand 
these  jokes. 

LuB.  Claudine. 

Clau.  {Repulsing  Lubin).     Have  done  ! 

LuB.  Ah !  how  cross  you  are  with  folks  !  Fie,  how  dis- 
agreeable to  refuse  people !  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  be 
so  pretty,  and  not  wishing  to  be  caressed  ?    He  !  there  ! 

Clau.  I  shall  slap  your  face. 

LuB.  Oh !  how  fierce !  how  savage  she  is !  Fie,  out  upon 
you,  you  cruel  minx  ! 

Clau.  You  are  too  fast. 

LuB.  What  harm  would  it  do  to  let  me  have  my  way  a 
little? 

Clau.  You  must  have  patience. 

LuB.  Only  a  little  kiss  on  account. 

Clau.  I  am  your  humble  servant. 

LuB.  Come,  Claudine,  you  can  deduct  it  afterwards.'® 

Clau.  Not  if  I  know  it !  I  have  been  taken  in  before. 
Good-bye.  Go,  and  tell  the  Viscount  that  I  shall  take 
care  to  deliver  his  note. 

LuB.  Good-bye,  you  cruel  fair. 

Clau.  That  is  affectionate. 

LuB.  Good-bye,  you  rock,  you  flint,  you  stone-block, 
you  everything  that  is  hard  in  the  world. 

Clau.  {Alone).  I  must  deliver  this  to  my  mistress.  .  . 
But  here  she  comes  with  her  husband  :  let  us  get  out  of 
the  way,  and  wait  until  she  is  alone. 

Scene  II. — George  Dandin,  Ang£lique. 

Dan.  No,  no ;  I  am  not  so  easily  deceived,  and  I  am 
but  too  certain  that  what  I  have  been  told  is  true.  I  have 
better  eyes  than  people  fancy  ;  and  your  talk  just  now  has 
not  dazzled  me. 

Scene  III. — Clitandre,  Ange:lique,  George  Dandin. 

Clit.  {Aside,  at  the  far  end  of  the  stage).  Ah  !  here  she 
is ;  but  her  husband  is  with  her.    . 

"  The  original  has  sur  I' et-tant-moins,  an  old  law-term. 


•-^i^  'S^/y^tt-^-^i^a^  ^yiiii.^'>7,^y 


KKKSiv.]  THE  ADASHFJr*  KirSBAMD.  545 

:  oath  all  your 
1  have  been 
r  the  tie  that 
iM  -  ■  h  oihir). 

Go  it  is  not 

that  j,,  3in:  jfoo  need 

not 
Ang. 
Dan 
(CV-- 
let 
mu 
re- 


]  i  Heavens  1  I  am  not  blind.    I 

"  iirriage  is  a  bond  to  which  wc  u^u  <    ^.j  .«^ 

at  it  ill  becomes  you  to  behave  as  you  do.  XAn- 

':>  Clititfidre).   '■' ■     - *  ':  "^    1  of  you; 

I  not  nod  yoi  .-.  at  rae. 

I  do  not 

novv  it  w. 

;  too.     If  L  V. 

to  a  r».re  o'l 
fail 

(      '  •,  wifho-  ■>•  Ocor^e 

Z>.' 

i: 

ANir.   Wnat  ;      I  did  not  say  a  word. 

('Ipnnr.'  7>  7  -^.Jin  turns  round  his  wife,  and  CUtanffr^ 
ntireSf  making  him  a  profound  boHt. 

Scene  iV.— George  Dandin,  ANcfeLiQUK. 

■  --■.  There  he  is,  prowling  about  you. 

Well  !   is  it  my  fault?      VVltat  do  yo«  wish  me 

;)v>;     I  XV Ub  vof J  to  Ho  what  a  wife  who  ovA\  ■»n»hes  to 

please  '■.  '  ■' 

gallant 


SCBNK  VI.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND,  5^7 

Dan  Indeed  !  that  is  how  you  take  it?  I  am  your 
husband,  and  tell  you  that  I  do  not  understand  this 

Ang.  I,  I  am  your  wife,  and  tell  you  that  I  understand 
It  perfectly  well.  i&itnu 

Dan.  {Aside).  I  have  a  great  mind  to  beat  her  face  to 
a  jelly,  and  to  brmg  it  to  a  condition  never  more  to  charm 
those  gallant  sparks.  Ah!  come,  George  Dandin  ;  you 
can  hardly  restram  yourself,  and  you  had  better  leave  the 
place. 

Scene  V.— Ang^lique,    Claudine. 

Clau.  I  have  been  on  the  tenterhooks  for  him  to  go 
Madam,  to  give  you  this  note  from  you  know  who  ' 

Ang.  Let  us  see.  ^She  reads  softly. 

Clau.  (^Astde).  To  judge  by  appearances,  what  he  tells 
her  seems  not  at  all  displeasing. 

Ang.  Ah !  Claudine,  how  prettily  this  note  is  worded  ' 
How  agreeable  these  courtiers  are  in  all  their  words  and 
m  all  their  actions  !  And  what,  after  all,  are  our  country 
people  compared  with  them  ? 

Clau.  I  thiiik  that,  after  having  seen  them,  the  Dan- 
dins  hardly  please  you. 

Ang.  Remain  here:   lam  going  to  answer  it. 

Clau.  {Alone).  I  have  no  need,  I  think,  to  recom- 
mend her  to  make  it  agreeable.     But  here  he  comes  . 

Scene  VI. — Clitandre,  Lubin,   Claudine. 

Clau.  Really,  Sir,  you  have  chosen  a  clever  messenger, 
Clit.  I  dared  not  send  one  of  my  own  servants;  but  I 
must  reward  you,  my  pretty   Claudine,  for  the  good  ser- 
vices which  you  have  rendered  me.    {He  feels  in  his  pocket. 

had  been  painted  as  a  victim,  she  might  easily  have  become  too  interest- 
ing; but,  although  sh'  states  that  she  was  married  without  having  her 
feelings  consulted,  she  does  not  pretend  to  be  sacrificed,  but  simply  says 
that  she  means  to  enjoy  herself.  Later  on,  we  may  laugh  at  the  follies 
and  at  the  humiliations  of  George  Dandin ;  but  we  can  never  approve  of 
the  tricks  which  his  wife  plays.  She  does  not  show  any  delicacy,  and 
takes  advantage  of  the  credulity  of  her  parents,  and  the  weakness  of  her 
husband,  whom  she  wishes  above  all  to  make  her  very  humble  servant. 
MoliSre's  genius  was  the  first  to  represent  upon  the  stage  a  woman 
deceiving  her  husband,  and  yet  not  enlisting  the  sympathies  of  the 
audience. 


548  GEORGE   DANDIN;   or,  [actii. 

Clau.  Eh  !  Sir,  there  is  no  occasion  for  it.  No,  no, 
Sir,  you  need  not  give  yourself  that  trouble  ;  I  serve  you 
because  you  merit  it,  and  because  I  like  you  at  heart. 

Clit.   {Giving  her  some  money).     I  am  obliged  to  you. 

LuB.  i^To  Claudine).  As  we  are  going  to  be  married, 
give  it  to  me,  that  I  may  put  it  with  mine. 

Clau.  I  will  keep  it  for  you,  as  well  as  the  kiss. 

Clit.  {To  Claudine).  Tell  me,  have  you  given  my  note 
to  your  charming  mistress  ? 

Clau.  Yes.     She  has  just  gone  to  answer  it. 

Clit.  But,  Claudine,  is  there  no  way  to  speak  to  her? 

Clau.  Yes  :  come  along  with  me  ;  I  shall  let  you  speak 
to  her. 

Clit.  But  will  she  not  be  displeased  ?  and  is  there  no 
risk? 

Clau.  No,  no.  Her  husband  is  not  at  home  ;  and,  be- 
sides, he  is  not  most  to  be  considered ;  it  is  her  father  and 
mother ;  and  as  long  as  they  are  prepossessed  in  favour  of 
their  daughter,  there  is  nothing  to  fear  from  the  rest. 

Clit.  I  trust  myself  to  your  guidance  ! 

LuB.  {Alone).  Odd  boddikins,  what  a  clever  wife  I 
shall  have  !     She  has  wit  enough  for  four. 

Scene  VII. — George  Dandin,  Lubin. 

Dan.  {Softly,  aside).  There  is  my  man  I  saw  just  now. 
Would  to  Heaven  he  could  be  brought  to  bear  witness  to 
the  father  and  mother  of  what  they  will  not  believe  ! 

LuB.  Ah,  there  you  are,  Mr.  Tittle-tattle,  whom  I 
recommended  so  much  not  to  talk,  and  who  promised  so 
much  that  he  would  not !  You  are  a  chatterbox,  then, 
and  you  go  and  tell  again  what  other  people  say  to  you  in 
secret  ? 

Dan.  I? 

LuB.  Yes.  You  have  repeated  everything  to  the  hus- 
band, and  you  are  the  cause  of  his  having  made  a  row.  I 
am  glad  to  know  what  a  tongue  you  have  got ;  and  it  will 
teach  me  not  to  tell  you  anything  more. 

Dan.  Listen,  friend. 

LuB.  If  you  had  not  blabbed,  I  would  have  told  you 
what  is  going  on  just  now  ;  but,  for  your  punishment,  you 
shall  know  nothing  at  all. 


SCEHKVlii.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  540 

Dan.  How  !     What  is  going  on  ? 

LuB.  Nothing,  nothing.  See  what  you  get  by  chatter- 
ing ;  you  will  not  get  another  taste,  so  you  can  smack 
your  lips  at  it. 

Dan.  Stop  a  little. 

LuB.  Not  at  all. 

Dan.  I  wish  to  say  only  a  word  to  you. 

LuB.  Nay,  nay.     You  wish  to  pump  me. 

Dan.  No,  it  is  not  that. 

LuB.  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  I  look.  I  see  what  you 
are  driving  at. 

Dan.  It  is  something  else.     Listen. 

LuB.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  You  would  like  me  to  tell 
you  that  the  Viscount  gave  some  money  just  now  to 
Claudine,  and  that  she  has  taken  him  to  her  mistress. 
But  I  am  not  so  silly. 

Dan.  Pray  .    .    . 

LuB.  No. 

Dan.  I  will  give  you  .    .    . 

LuB.  Fiddlesticks. 

Scene  VIII. — George  Dandin,  alone. 

I  could  not,  with  this  idiot,  make  use  of  the  idea  which 
I  had.  But  the  fresh  intelligence  that  has  escaped  him 
shall  serve  the  same  purpose ;  and  if  the  gallant  is  indoors, 
that  will  be  proof  enough  for  the  father  and  mother,  and 
fully  convince  them  of  their  daughter's  shamelessness. 
The  mischief  is,  that  I  do  not  know  how  to  make  the  best 
of  this  piece  of  news.  If  I  go  indoors,  the  rascal  will 
escape ;  and  however  clearly  I  may  see  my  own  dishon- 
our, I  shall  not  be  believed  on  my  oath,  and  I  shall  be 
told  that  I  am  dreaming.  If,  again,  I  fetch  my  father-in- 
law  and  mother-in-law,  without  being  sure  of  finding  the 
gallant  inside,  it  will  be  no  other  thing,  and  I  shall  be  in 
the  same  plight  as  before.  Can  I  not  find  out  quietly  if 
he  be  there  still  ?  {After  having  looked  through  the  key- 
hole). Oh,  Heavens  !  there  is  no  longer  any  doubt.  I 
have  just  seen  him  through  the  key-hole.  Fate  gives  me 
an  opportunity  of  confounding  my  adversary  ;  and,  to 
complete  the  adventure,  it  sends  the  judges  whom  I 
need  at  the  right  moment. 


550  GEORGE   DANDIN  ;   OR,  fACr  ii. 

Scene  IX. — M.  de  Sotenville,  Madam  de  Soten- 
viLLE,  George  Dandin. 

Dan.  Just  now,  you  would  not  believe  me,  and  your 
daughter  got  the  better  of  me ;  but  at  present  I  have 
proofs  at  hand  how  she  serves  me;  and,  thank  Heaven, 
my  dishonour  is  so  plain  now,  that  you  cannot  doubt  it 
any  longer. 

M.  DE  S.  How  now !  son-in-law,  you  are  still  harping 
upon  this  ? 

Dan.  Yes,  I  am ;  and  I  have  never  had  greater  cause 
to  do  so. 

Mad.  de  S.  You  are  going  once  more  to  cram  your 
nonsense  into  our  heads? 

Dan.  Yes,  Madam,  and  they  do  worse  to  mine. 

M.  de  S.  Are  you  not  weary  of  making  yourself  such  a 
nuisance? 

Dan.  No  ;  but  I  am  very  weary  of  being  made  a  dupe 
of. 

Mad.  de  S.  Will  you  never  get  rid  of  your  preposterous 
fancies  ? 

Dan.  No,  Madam;  but  I  would  like  to  get  rid  of  a  wife 
who  dishonours  me. 

Mad.  de  S.  Good  Heavens!  son-in-law,  be  careful 
how  you  speak. 

M.  de  S.  Zounds !  Try  to  find  some  less  offensive 
terms. 

Dan.  The  merchant  who  loses  cannot  laugh. 

Mad.  de  S.  Remember  that  you  have  married  a  lady 
of  noble  birth. 

Dan.  I  remember  it  well  enough,  and  shall  remember 
it  only  too  much. 

M.  de  S.  If  you  do  remember  it,  endeavour  to  speak  of 
her  more  respectfully. 

Dan.  But  why  does  she  not  endeavour  to  treat  me  more 
honestly?  What !  because  she  is  a  lady  of  noble  birth,  is 
she  to  be  free  to  do  as  she  likes  to  me,  without  my  daring 
to  say  a  word? 

M.  DE  S.  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  and  what  can 
you  say?  Did  you  not  see,  this  morning,  that  she  denied 
all  knowledge  of  the  person  you  spoke  to  me  about? 


SCENE  X.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  551 

Dan.  Yes,  But  you,  what  would  you  say  if  I  show  you 
at  this  moment  that  the  gallant  is  with  her? 

Mad.  de  S.  With  her? 

Dan.  Yes,  with  her,  and  in  my  house. 

M.  DE  S.  In  your  house  ? 

Dan.  Yes,  in  my  own  house. 

Mad.  de  S.  If  such  be  the  case,  we  shall  take  your  part 
against  her. 

M.  DE  S.  Yes.  The  honour  of  our  family  is  dear  to  us 
above  everything;  and  if  you  speak  the  truth,  we  shall 
discard  her  as  our  child,  and  leave  her  to  your  resent- 
ment. 

Dan.  You  have  only  to  follow  me. 

Mad  de  S.  Take  care  not  to  be  mistaken. 

M.  DE  S.  Do  not  do  as  you  did  before. 

Dan.  Good  Heavens  !  you  shall  see.  {Pointing  to  Cli- 
tandre,  who  comes  out  of  the  house  with  Angelique).  There, 
have  I  told  a  lie  ? 

Scene  X.  —  Angelique,  Clitandre,  Claudine,  M.  de 

SOTENVILLE,      MaDAM    DE    SOTENVILLE,      witk    GeORGE 

Dandin  at  the  farther  end  of  the  stage. 

Ang.  {To  Clitandre).  Good-bye.  I  am  afraid  that  you 
should  be  caught  here,  and  I  have  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances. 

Clit.  Promise  me,  then,  Madam,  to  let  me  speak  to 
you  this  night. 

Ang.  I  shall  try  my  best. 

Dan.  {To  M.  and  Mad.  de  Sotenville).  Let  us  get  be- 
hind softly,  and  try  not  to  be  seen. 

Clau.  {To  Angtlique).  Ah!  Madam,  all  is  lost! 
Here  are  your  father  and  mother,  and  your  husband  with 
them. 

Clit.  Ah,  Heavens ! 

Ang.  {Softly  to  Clitandre  and  Claudine).  Take  no  no- 
tice, and  leave  it  to  me.  {Aloud  to  Clitandre).  What ! 
dare  you  to  behave  in  such  a  manner,  after  the  affair  of 
just  now?  and  is  it  thus  that  you  disguise  your  sentiments? 
I  am  told  that  you  are  in  love  with  me ;  and  that  you  in- 
tend to  declare  your  affection  for  me ;  I  show  my  annoy- 
ance at  it,  and  explain  myself  clearly  to  you  before  every 


552  GEORGE   DANDIN  ;   OR,  [act  ii. 

^  one  :  you  stoutly  deny  the  thing,  and  pledge  me  your 
word  that  you  have  no  thought  of  offending  me ;  and  yet, 
the  self-same  day,  you  have  the  impudence  to  come  and 
call  upon  me,  to  tell  me  that  you  love  me,  to  say  a  hun- 
dred silly  things  to  me  to  persuade  me  to  respond  to  your 
follies :  just  as  if  I  were  a  woman  to  break  the  vows  which 
I  have  pledged  to  my  husband,  and  ever  to  stray  from  that 
virtue  which  my  parents  have  taught  me.  If  my  father 
knew  of  this,  he  would  teach  you  indeed  to  attempt  such 
things !  But  an  honest  woman  does  not  like  to  make  a 
stir :  I  do  not  care  to  tell  him  of  it ;  {Making  a  sign  to 
Claudine  to  bring- a  stick)  and  I  shall  show  you  that,  wo- 
man as  I  am,  I  have  courage  enough  to  revenge  myself  for 
the  insults  offered  to  me.  You  have  not  acted  like  a  no- 
bleman, and  therefore  I  shall  not  treat  you  as  one.  {An- 
gilique  takes  the  stick,  and  lifts  it  against  Ciitandre,  who 
places  himself  in  such  a  position  that  the  blows  fall  upon 
Dandin.) 

Clit.  {Crying  as  if  he  had  been  struck).  Ah  !  Ah  !  Ah ! 
Ah  !  gently. 

Scene  XI. — M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville,  Ange:lique, 
George  Dandin,  Claudine. 

Claud.  Strike  hard,  Madam !  lay  it  on  thickly. 

Ang.  {Pretending  to  speak  to  Ciitandre).  If  you  have 
anything  more  on  your  mind,  I  am  ready  to  answer  you.  ^* 

Clau.  That  will  teach  you  whom  you  have  got  to  deal 
with. 

Ang.  {Pretending  to  be  surprised).  Ah!  father,  you 
here! 

M.  de  S.  Yes,  daughter,  and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  in 
your  discretion  and  courage  you  show  yourself  a  worthy 
offspring  of  the  house  of  Sotenville.  Come  here ;  let  me 
embrace  you. 

Mad.  de  S.  Embrace  me  also,  daughter.  There  !  I 
weep  for  joy,  and  recognise  my  blood  in  what  you  have 
just  now  done. 

'8  In  one  of  Moli^re's  early  farces,  The  fealousy  of  the  Barboiiille  (see 
vol.  III.),  and  which  he  played  in  the  provinces,  the  Barbouille,  followed 
by  Villebrequin,  his  father-in-law,  wishes  to  surprise  his  wife  and  her 
gallant  and  receives  the  blows  which  she  pretends  to  deal  to  the  latter. 


SCENE  XIII.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  553 

M.  DE  S.  Son-in-law,  how  delighted  you  ought  to  be ! 
and  how  satisfied  you  should  be  with  this  incident !  You 
had  just  cause  to  be  alarmed ;  but  your  suspicions  are 
allayed  in  the  most  fortunate  manner. 

Mad.  de  S.  Without  doubt,  son-in-law;  and  you  ought 
now  to  be  the  most  satisfied  of  husbands. 

Clau.  Assuredly.  This  is  what  I  call  a  woman  !  You 
ought  to  be  only  too  happy,  and  kiss  the  ground  she 
walks  on. 

Dan.  {Aside).     Oh,  you  wretch  ! 

Mad.  de  S.  What  is  the  matter,  son-in-law?  Why  do 
you  not  thank  your  wife  a  little  for  the  affection  which 
you  see  she  shows  for  you. 

Ang.  No,  no,  father,  there  is  no  need  for  that.  There 
is  no  necessity  to  thank  me  for  what  he  has  just  witnessed ; 
whatever  I  have  done  is  only  out  of  self-respect. 

M.  de  S.  Where  are  you  going,  daughter? 

Ang.  I  am  going  away,  father,  not  to  be  obliged  to 
receive  his  compliments. 

Claud.  {To  George  Dandin).  She  is  right  to  be  angry. 
She  is  a  woman  who  deserves  to  be  worshipped ;  and  you 
do  not  treat  her  as  you  ought. 

Dan.  {Aside).     Wicked  wretch  ! 

Scene  XII. — M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville,  George 
Dandin. 

M.  DE  S.  She  is  rather  angry  at  what  happened  just 
now,  and  it  will  pass  away  if  you  caress  her  a  little. 
Farewell,  son-in-law;  you  see  you  have  no  occasion  to 
be  any  longer  uneasy.  Go  and  make  it  up  together,  and 
try  to  appease  her  by  apologizing  for  your  anger. 

Mad.  de  S.  You  ought  to  consider  that  she  is  a  girl 
strictly  brought  up,  and  who  is  not  accustomed  to  see 
herself  suspected  of  any  bad  action.  Farewell.  I  am 
delighted  to  see  your  quarrels  ended,  and  the  great  joy 
which  her  conduct  must  afford  you. 

Scene  XIII.— George  Dandin,  alone. 
I   do   not   say  a  word,  for  I  should  gain  nothing  by 
speaking  ;  and  never  was  anything  known  like    my  dis- 
grace.    Yes,  I  wonder  at  my  misfortune,  and  the  subtle 


554  GEORGE  DANDIN;   or,  [act  ni. 

skill  of  my  jade  of  a  wife  to  be  always  in  the  right,  and 
put  me  in  the  wrong.  Is  it  possible  that  I  shall  always 
be  outdone  by  her ;  that  appearances  will  always  go 
against  me,  and  that  I  shall  never  have  a  chance  of  pro- 
ving the  guilt  of  my  shameless  wife  !  O  Heaven  !  assist 
me  in  my  plans,  and  vouchsafe  me  the  favour  of  letting 
the  world  see  that  I  am  dishonoured ! 


ACT  III. 

Scene  I.  —  Clitandre,  Lubin. 

Cut.  The  night  is  pretty  far  advanced,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  it  is  too  late.  I  cannot  see  where  I  am  going 
Lubin  ! 

LuB.    Sir? 

Clit.  Is  this  the  way  ? 

LuB.  I  think  it  is.  Odds-bobs !  This  is  a  silly  night, 
to  be  so  dark  as  this. 

Clit.  It  is  certainly  not  right;  but  if,  on  the  one  hand, 
it  prevents  us  from  seeing,  on  the  other,  it  prevents  our 
being  seen. 

LuB.  You  are  right,  it  is  not  so  far  wrong  after  all.  It 
should  like  to  know,  sir,  you  who  are  so  learned,  why  it  is 
not  day  at  night  ? 

Cli.  That  is  a  great  question,  and  one  which  is  difl&cult 
to  answer       You  are  inquisitive,  Lubin. 

LuB.  Yes  :  if  I  had  studied,  I  should  have  thought 
about  things  of  which  no  one  ever  thinks  now. 

Cli.  Yes,  I  believe  that.  You  appear  to  have  a  subtle 
and  penetrating  mind. 

LuB.  That  is  true.  Look  here,  I  explain  Latin  although 
I  never  learned  it ;  and  the  other  day,  when  I  saw  col- 
legium written  upon  a  large  door,  I  guessed  that  it  meant 
college. 

Cli.   Marvellous  !     You  can  read  then,  Lubin? 

LuB.  Yes.  I  can  read  print ;  but  I  never  could  learn  to 
read  writing. 

Cli.  We  are  near  the  house.  (^After  clapping  his  hands)- 
This  is  the  signal  that  Claudine  has  given  me. 


SCENE  II.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  555 

LuB.  Upon  my  word  !  she  is  worth  her  weight  in  gold  ; 
and  I  love  her  with  all  my  heart. 

Cli.  That  is  why  I  took  you  with  me  to  entertain  her. 

LuB.  Sir,  I  am  .    .    . 

Cli.  Hush !     I  hear  a  noise. 


Scene  II. — Angelique,   Claudine,  Clitandre,   Lubin. 

Ang.  Claudine? 

Clau.  Well? 

Ang.  Leave  the  door  ajar. 

Clau.  I  have  done  so.  {They  are  groping  about  for 
each  other  in  the  dark. 

Cll  (  To  Lubin).  It  is  they.     Hush. 

Ang.  Hush. 

LuB.  Hush. 

Clau.  Hush. 

Cli.  (  To  Claudine,  whom  he  mistakes  for  Angelique). 
Madam ! 

Ang.  (  To  Lubin,  whom  she  mistakes  for  Clitandre). 
What? 

LuB.  {To  Angelique,  who?n  he  mistakes  for  Claudine). 
Claudine ! 

Clau.  {To  Clitandre,  whom  she  mistakes  for  Lubin). 
What  is  it? 

Cli.  (  To  Claudine,  thinking  he  is  speaking  to  Angelique^. 
Ah,  Madam,  how  happy  you  make  me  ! 

LuB.  (  To  Angelique,  thitiking  he  is  speaking  to  Claudine). 
Claudine  !  my  poor  Claudine 

Clau.   {To  Clitandre).  Gently,  Sir. 

Ang.  {To  Lubin).  Softly,  Lubin. 

Cli.  Is  it  you,  Claudine? 

Clau.  Yes. 

LuB.  Is  it  you.  Madam? 

Ang.  Yes. 

Clau.  {To  Clitandre).  You  have  taken  the  one  for 
the  other. 

LuB.  {To  Angelique).  Upon  my  word!  at  night  one 
cannot  see  a  bit. 

Ang.  Is  it  not  you,  Clitandre? 

Cli.  Yes,  Madam. 


55^  GEORGE  DANDIN;  OR,  [act  m. 

Ang.  My  husband  is  snoring  nicely,  and  I  have  taken 
the  opportunity  for  our  conversing  together. 

Cli.  Let  us  look  for  a  seat  somewhere, 

Clau.  That  is  a  good  idea.  (^Angtlique,  Claudine  and 
Clitandre  sit  down  at  the  farther  end  of  the  stage,  upon  a 
piece  of  turf  at  the  foot  of  a  tree. 

LuB.  (Seeking  for  Claudine).  Claudine !  whereabouts  are 
you? 

Scene  III.  — Angelique,  Clitandre,  Claudine,  seated 

at  the  farther  end  of  the  stage,  George  Dandin,  partly 
dressed,  Lubin. 

Dan.  (Aside).  I  heard  my  wife  go  downstairs,  and  I  have 
quickly  dressed  myself  to  go  down  after  her.  Where  can 
she  have  gone  to?     Has  she  left  the  house? 

LuB.  (Seeking  for  Claudine  and  catching  hold  of  Dandin 
for  her).  But  where  are  you,  Claudine?  Ah!  here  you 
are.  Upon  my  word,  your  master  is  nicely  caught,  and  I 
think  it  as  funny  as  the  cudgel-blows  just  now,  of  which 
I  was  told.  Your  mistress  says  he  was  snoring  at  this 
moment,  like  a  pig;  and  he  does  not  know  that  the  Vis- 
count and  she  are  together,  while  he  sleeps.  I  should  like 
to  know  what  sort  of  a  dream  he  is  having  now.  It  is 
quite  laughable.  Why  does  he  get  it  into  his  head  to  be 
jealous  of  his  wife,  and  to  wish  to  keep  her  all  to  himself? 
It  is  like  his  impudence,  and  the  Viscount  does  him  too 
much  honour."  You  are  not  saying  a  word,  Claudine? 
Come,  let  us  follow  them ;  and  give  me  your  little  hand 
that  I  may  kiss  it.  Ah  !  how  sweet  it  is !  it  is  like  eating 
jam,  (  To  George  Dandin,  whoni  he  still  takes  for  Claudine, 
and  who  rudely  repulses  him).  The  deuce  !  how  you  go  it, 
your  little  hand  is  mighty  hard. 

Dan.   Who  is  there  ? 

LuB.  No  one. 

Dan.  He  runs  away,  and  leaves  me  convinced  of  a  fresh 
deception  of  mv  wretch.  Come,  I  must  send  for  her 
mother  and  father  without  delay,  so  that  this  adventure 
may  get  me  separated  from  her.     Hullo  !    Colin  !  Colin  ! 

"  This  is  the  third  time  that  Lubin  has  made  a  confidant  of  George 
Dandin,  but  darkness  is  the  cause  of  it;  twice  before  it  was  through 
Lubin's  simplicity. 


SCENE  IV.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  557 

Scene  IV.— ANCfeuQUE,  Clitandre,  Claudine,  Lubin, 
still  seated  at  the  fartJier  end  of  the  stage,  George 
Dandin,  Colin. 

Col.  {At  the  window).  Sir  ! 

Dan.  Quick,  come  down. 

Col.  {^Leaping  out  of  the  window^.  Here  I  am,  I  could 
not  come  more  quickly. 

Dan.  Are  you  there  ? 

Col.  Ay,  Sir ! 

(  Whilst  Dandin  looks  for  Colinsfn  the  side  where  he 
has  heard  his  voice,  Colin  crosses  to  the  other  and 
falls  asleep. 

Dan.  (  Turning  to  the  side  where  he  believes  Colin  to  be'). 
Softly.  Speak  low.  Listen.  Run  to  my  father-in-law 
and  mother-in-law,  and  say  that  I  beseech  them  very 
urgently  to  come  down  here  immediately.  Do  you  hear? 
Come,  Colin  !   Colin  1 

Col.  (^On  the  other  side,  waking  up^.  Sir? 

Dan.  Where  the  devil  are  you  ? 

Col.  Here. 

Dan.  Plague  take  the  booby,  who  is  moving  away  from 
me  !  (  Wliile  Dandin  returns  to  the  side  where  he  thinks 
that  Colin  has  remained,  Colin,  half  asleep,  crosses  over  to 
the  other,  and  falls  asleep  again).  I  say  that  you  are  to  go 
directly  to  my  father-in-law  and  mother-in-law,  and  tell 
them  that  I  implore  them  to  come  here  immediately. 
Do  you  understand  me?     Answer.     Colin!  Colin! 

Col.   (^On  the  other  side,  waking  up).    Sir! 

Dan.  The  scoundrel  will  drive  me  mad.  Come  here, 
I  say!  (^They  run  against  each  other  and  fall  down). 
Ah  !  the  wretch  !  he  has  maimed  me.  Where  are  you? 
Come  here  that  I  may  thrash  the  life  out  of  you.  I 
believe  he  is  running  away  from  me. 

Col.   Of  course  I  am. 

Dan.  Will  you  come  here? 

<  OL.  Not  likely. 

Dan.   Come  here,  I  tell  you. 

Col.  Not  a  bit.     You  wish  to  thrash  me. 

Dan.  Well !  I  will  not  thrash  you. 

Col.   For  certain  ? 


558  GEORGE   DANDIN  ;   OR,  [act  ni. 

Dan.  Yes.  Come  close.  (  To  Colin,  whom  he  holds  by 
the  ami).  Good  !  It  is  lucky  that  I  need  you.  Go 
quickly  and  ask  my  father-in-law  and  mother-in-law,  in 
my  name,  to  come  down  here  as  soon  as  possible,  and  tell 
them  that  it  is  on  a  matter  of  the  utmost  consequence ; 
and,  should  they  hesitate  on  account  of  the  time,  do  not 
fail  to  insist  upon  it,  and  to  give  them  to  understand  that 
it  is  most  important  they  should  come,  no  matter  how 
they  are  dressed.    You  understand  me  thoroughly  now  ? 

Col.  Yes,  Sir. 

Dan.  Get  along  then  and  come  back  quickly.  {Thinking 
himself  alone).  And  I,  I  will  go  indoors,  to  wait  till  ,  .  . 
But  I  hear  some  one.  Can  it  be  my  wife  ?  I  must  listen, 
and  take  advantage  of  this  darkness. 

{He places  himself  at  his  door. 

Scene  V. — ^Angelique,  Clitandre,  Claudine,  Lubin, 
George  Dandin 

Ang.  (  To  Clitandre).  Good-bye.  It  is  time  to  separate 
now. 

Cli.  What!  already? 

Ang.  We  have  conversed  enough. 

Cli.  Ah  !  Madam,  can  I  have  enough  of  your  conversa- 
tion, and  find  in  so  short  a  time  all  the  words  I  need.  It 
would  take  whole  days  to  explain  to  you  clearly  all  that  I 
feel ;  and  I  have  not  told  you  yet  the  smallest  part  of  what 
I  have  to  say  to  you. 

Ang.  We  shall  hear  some  more  at  another  time. 

Cll  Alas  !  how  you  pierce  my  heart  when  you  talk  of 
withdrawing ;  and  with  what  amount  of  grief  you  leave  me 
now! 

Ang.  We  shall  find  means  of  seeing  each  other  again. 

Cll  Yes.  But  I  cannot  help  remembering  that,  when 
you  leave  me,  you  go  back  to  a  husband.  This  thought 
kills  me ;  and  a  husband's  privileges  are  cruel  things  to  a 
fond  lover. 

Ang.  Are  you  weak  enough  to  have  such  anxiety,  and 
do  you  think  it  possible  to  love  a  certain  sort  of  husbands  ? 
We  marry  them,  because  we  cannot  help  ourselves,  and 
because  we  depend  upon  our  parents,  who  look  only  to 


SCENE  vm.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  559 

riches ;  but  we  know  how  to  be  even  with  them,  and  we 
take  good  care  not  to  value  them  above  their  deserts. 

Dan.   {Aside).     These  are  our  strumpets  of  wives! 

Cli.  Alas  !  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  one  they  have 
given  you  little  deserved  the  honour  which  he  received, 
and  that  the  union  of  a  woman  like  you  with  a  man  like 
him  is  somewhat  strange. 

Dan.  {Aside).  Poor  husbands  !  that  is  how  they  treat 
you. 

Cli.  You  deserve,  no  doubt,  a  quite  different  lot; 
Heaven  did  not  create  you  to  be  a  peasant's  wife. 

Dan.  Would  to  Heaven  she  were  yours !  you  would  tell 
a  different  tale  !     Let  us  go  in  ;  it  is  enough. 

{He  goes  in  and  locks  the  door  inside. 

Scene  VI. — Ange:lique,   Clitandre,   Claudine,  Lubin. 

Clau.  Madam,  if  you  have  any  harm  to  say  of  your  hus- 
band, you  had  better  make  haste,  for  it  is  getting  late. 

Cli.  Ah  !    Claudine,  how  cruel  you  are  ! 

Ang.   {To  Clitandre).     She  is  right.    We  must  separate. 

Cli.  Since  you  wish  it,  I  must  submit  to  it.  But  I  pray 
you  to  pity  me,  at  least,  for  the  wretched  moments  that 
I  am  to  pass. 

Ang.  Farewell. 

LuB.  Where  are  you,  Claudine,  that  I  may  bid  you 
good-night  ? 

Clau.  Do  not  trouble.  I  accept  it  at  a  distance,  and 
send  you  back  the  same. 

Scene  VII. — Angelique,  Claudine. 

Ang.  Let  us  go  in  without  making  a  noise. 

Clau.  The  door  is  shut. 

Ang.  I  have  the  master-key. 

Clau.  Then  open  it  softly.  t,  ^     « 

Ang.  It  is  bolted  inside,  and  I  do  not  know  what  we 

shall  do. 

Clau.  Call  the  boy  who  sleeps  there. 

Ang.  Colin  !  Colin  !  Colin  ! 
Scene  VIII.— George  Dandin,  Angelique,  Claudine. 

Dan.  {At  the  window).  Colin  !  Colin  !  Ah  !  I  have 
caught  you  at  it  this  time,  Mistress  Dandin;   and   )ou 


560  GEORGE  DANDIN;    OR,  [act  in. 

make  little  escapades  "^  while  I  am  asleep.    I  am  very  glad 
of  it,  and  to  see  you  abroad  at  this  hour. 

Ang.  Well !  what  great  harm  is  there  in  taking  the 
fresh  air  at  night? 

Dan.  Yes,  yes.  This  is  the  right  time  to  take  the  fresh 
air !  It  is  rather  the  warm  air,  Mistress  Jade ;  and  we 
know  all  about  the  appointment  between  you  and  your 
spark.  We  heard  the  whole  of  your  gallant  conversation, 
and  the  beautiful  verses  in  my  praise  which  you  sang  to 
each  other.  But  my  consolation  is  that  I  am  going  to  be 
avenged,  and  that  your  father  and  mother  will  be  convinced 
now  of  the  justice  of  my  complaints,  and  of  your  dis- 
orderly conduct.  I  have  sent  for  them,  and  they  will  be 
here  in  a  moment.  , 

Ang.  {Aside).    Oh  Heavens ! 

Clau.  Madam! 

Dan.  That  is  a  blow,  doubtless,  which  you  did  not 
expect.  It  is  now  my  turn  to  win,  and  I  have  the  where- 
withal to  put  dovvn  your  pride,  and  spoil  your  stratagems. 
Up  till  now,  you  have  laughed  at  my  accusations,  thrown 
dust  in  your  parents'  eyes,  and  patched  up  your  misdeeds. 
I  might  see  and  say  what  I  would,  your  cunning  always 
got  the  better  of  my  righteous  cause,  and  you  have  always 
found  some  way  to  appear  in  the  right ;  but  this  time, 
thank  Heaven,  matters  will  be  cleared  up,  and  your  shame- 
lessness  will  be  quite  confounded. 

Ang.  Pray  let  me  in. 

Dan.  No,  no  :  you  must  wait  the  arrival  of  those  I  have 
sent  for ;  I  wish  them  to  find  you  out-of-doors  at  this  nice 
time  of  night.  While  you  are  waiting  for  them,  you  had 
better  contrive,  if  you  like,  some  new  scheme  to  get  out 
of  this  scrape ;  to  invent  some  way  to  palliate  your  esca- 
pade ;  to  find  some  pretty  trick  to  hoodwink  the  world 
and  to  appear  innocent ;  some  specious  pretext  of  a  noc- 
turnal pilgrimage,  or  of  some  female  friend  of  yours  in 
labour,  whom  you  have  just  assisted. 

Ang.  No.  I  have  no  intention  of  disguising  anything 
from  you.  I  do  not  pretend  to  defend  myself,  nor  to 
deny  things,  since  you  know  them. 

**  The  original  has  escampativos,  a  burlesque  expression,  derived  from 
the  old  French  verb  escatnfer,  to  escape,  to  take  flight. 


5CENK  VIII.]  THE  ABASHED    HUSBAND.  561 

Dan.  That  is  because  you  find  no  loophole  left  to  you, 
and  that  in  this  affair,  you  cannot  invent  an  excuse  of 
which  it  would  not  be  easy  for  me  to  show  the  falshood. 

Ang.  Yes,  I  confess  that  I  am  in  the  wrong,  and  that 
you  have  reason  to  complain.  But  I  beg  of  you,  I  beseech 
you,  not  now  to  expose  me  to  the  anger  of  my  parents, 
and  let  me  in  quickly.  * 

Dan.  I  would  see  you  far  enough  first. 

Ang.  There  is  a  dear  good  husband  !  I  implore  you, 
do  ! 

•  Dan.  a  dear  good  husband,  am  I !  I  am  your  dear 
good  husband  now,  because  you  are  caught.  I  am  very 
glad  of  it ;  but  you  never  took  it  into  your  head  to  say 
these  sweet  things  before. 

Ang.  There;  I  promise  never  again  to  give  you  any 
cause  for  displeasure,  and  to  .    .    . 

Dan.  All  that  does  not  signify.  I  will  not  lose  this 
opportunity ;  and  I  am  determined  that  the  world  shall 
know  thoroughly  your  misconduct  this  time. 

Ang.  For  mercy's  sake,  let  me  speak  to  you.  I  pray 
you  for  a  moment's  hearing. 

Dan.  Well !  what  is  it  ? 

Ang.  It  is  true,  I  have  been  at  fault ;  I  admit  it  once 
again,  and  that  your  resentment  is  just ;  that  I  have  taken 
advantage  of  your  sleep  to  slip  out :  and  that  I  went  out 
to  keep  an  appointment  with  the  person  whom  you  know. 
But  after  all,  these  are  actions  which  you  ought  to  pardon 
at  my  age ;  the  follies  of  a  young  woman  who  has  had  no 
experience,  and  has  but  just  entered  the  world ;  liberties 
to  which  one  gives  way,  without  thinking  of  any  harm, 
and  which,  in  reality,  have  nothing  .  .  . 

Dan.  Ay:  as  you  say,  these  are  things  in  which  one 
ought  to  have  implicit  faith. 

Ang.  I  do  not  wish  to  pretend  by  this,  that  I  am  with- 
out blame  towards  you ;  and  I  only  entreat  of  you  to  forget 
an  offence  for  which  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon,  and  to 
spare  me,  for  this  once  only,  the  vexation  of  the  severe 
reproaches  of  my  father  and  mother.  If  you  will  gene- 
rously grant  me  the  favour  which  I  ask  from  you,  your 
obliging  conduct,  your  kindness  towards  me,  will  win  me 
over  entirely;  it  will  thoroughly  touch  my  heart,  and  pro- 

VOL.   II.  2L 


562  GEORGE  DANDIN  ;   OR,  [act  hi. 

duce  there  for  you  what  neither  the  authority  of  my  parents 
nor  the  bonds  of  marriage  have  been  able  to  instil  into  it. 
In  short,  it  will  cause  me  to  renounce  all  gallantries,  and 
to  be  attached  solely  to  you.  Yes,  I  pledge  my  word,  that 
henceforth  I  will  be  the  best  wife  in  the  world  to  you,  and 
that  I  will  show  you  so  much  affection,  yes,  so  much,  that 
you  will  be  satisfied. 

Dan.  Ah !  you  crocodile,  that  flatters  people  to  strangle 
them !  ^ 

Ang.  Grant  me  this  favour. 

Dan.  Not  a  jot.     I  am  inexorable. 

Ang.  Show  yourself  generous. 

Dan.  No. 

Ang.  For  pity's  sake  ! 

Dan.  Not  at  all. 

Ang.  I  implore  you  with  all  my  heart. 

Dan.  No,  no,  no.  I  wish  them  to  be  undeceived  about 
you,  and  that  your  disgrace  may  be  made  public. 

Ang.  Very  well!  if  you  drive  me  to  despair,  I  warn 
you  that  a  woman,  in  that  condition,  is  capable  of  every- 
thing, and  that  I  shall  do  something  of  which  you  shall 
repent.'^ 

Dan.  And  what  will  you  do,  pray? 

Ang.  I  shall  be  driven  to  the  most  desperate  resolution ; 
and  with  this  knife  shall  I  kill  myself  on  the  spot.^ 

Dan.  Ha!    ha!    Well  and  good. 

Ang.  Not  so  well  and  good  as  you  imagine.  People  are 
acquainted,  on  all  hands,  with  our  quarrels  and  the  per- 
petual ill-will  which  you  foster  against  me.  When  they 
find  me  dead,  no  one  will  doubt  that  you  have  killed  me; 
and,  certainly,  my  parents  are  not  the  people  to  leave  my 
death  unpunished,  and  they  will  punish  you  to  the  utmost 
extent  which  the  law  and  the  heat  of  their  resentment  will 
allow.  That  is  the  way  in  which  I  shall  find  means  to  be 
revenged  upon  you;  and  I  am  not  the  first  who  has  had 

21  In  the  eleventh  scene  of  The  Jealousy  of  the  Barbouilli  (see  Vol.  III.), 
one  of  Moli^re's  earliest  farces,  which  he  played  in  the  provinces,  the 
Barbouilli  says  almost  the  same  thing  to  his  wife,  who  is  also  called 
Angelique. 

^  Angelique,  in  the  eleventh  scene  of  The  Jealousy  of  the  Barbouilli. 
savs  nearly  the  same  thing. 

'«  This  is  also  said  by  Angdlique  in  The  Jealousy  of  the  Barbouilli, 


SCKNB  X.]  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND  563 

recourse  to  that  kind  of  vengeance  j  and  who  has  not 
scrupled  to  take  her  own  life,  in  order  to  destroy  those 
who  had  the  cruelty  to  drive  her  to  this  last  extremity. 

Dan.  I  am  not  to  be  caught  in  that  way.  People  no 
longer  kill  themselves;  and  the  fashion  has  gone  out 
long  since. 

Ang.  You  may  rely  upon  my  doing  it ;  and  if  you  per- 
sist in  your  refusal,  if  you  do  not  let  me  in,  I  swear  to  you 
that  I  shall  immediately  show  you  how  far  the  resolution  of 
a  desperate  woman  will  go. 

Dan.  Nonsense,  nonsense.     You  wish  to  frighten  me. 

Ang.  Very  well !  since  it  must  be,  this  will  content  us 
both,  and  will  show  whether  I  am  jesting.  {After  having 
pretended  to  kill  herself).  Ah !  it  is  done.  Heaven 
grant  that  my  death  may  be  avenged  as  I  wish,  and 
that  he  who  is  the  cause  of  it  may  receive  a  just  chastise- 
ment for  his  cruelty  towards  me  ! 

Dan.  Good  gracious !  can  she  have  been  malicious 
enough  to  kill  herself  to  get  me  hanged  ?  Let  us  take  a 
bit  of  candle  to  go  and  see.^* 

Scene  IX. — Ang#xique,  Claudine. 

Ang.  Hush  !  keep  still.  Let  us  place  ourselves  imme- 
diately, one  on  each  side  of  the  door. 

Scene  X. — Ang^lique  and  Claudine,  entering  the  house 
as  soon  as  George  Dandin  comes  out,  and  immediately 
bolting  the  door  inside;  George  Dandin,  with  a  can- 
dle in  his  hafid,  without  perceiving  them. 

Dan.  Can  the  wickedness  of  a  woman  go  as  far  as  that  ? 
{Alone,  after  looking  everywhere).  There  is  no  one  here. 
Well !  I  thought  so  ;  and  the  hussy  is  gone  away,  finding 
that  she  could  gain  nothing  from  me,  either  by  prayers  or 
threats.  So  much  the  better  !  it  will  make  matters  still 
worse  for  her ;  and  her  father  and  mother  will  see  her 
crime  all  the  more  plainly  when  they  come.     {After  hav- 

«*  Angelique'slast  remark  and  Dandin's  reply  are,  with  some  variations, 
found  also  in  The  Jealousy  of  the  Barbouille.  (See  Vol.  III.).  In  the 
old  fabliaux,  there  is  a  tale  similar  to  George  Dandin.  (See  Introductory 
Notice)  ;  but  the  woman,  in  order  to  frighten  her  husband,  throws  a  big 
stone  into  a  well. 


564  GEORGE  DANDIN  ;   OR,  [act  in. 

ing  been  at  his  door,  to  go  in).  Ah  !  ah  !  the  door  has 
fallen  to.  Hullo  !  ho  !  some  one !  open  the  door  for  me 
quickly  ! 

Scene  XI. — Angelique  and  Claudine,  at  the  window, 
George  Dandin. 

Ang.  What!  is  it  you?  Where  have  you  been,  you 
wretch  ?  Is  this  a  time  to  come  home,  when  it  is  nearly 
daybreak  ?  and  is  this  the  life  which  an  honest  husband 
ought  to  lead? 

Clau.  a  pretty  thing  to  go  about  drinking  all  night, 
and  to  leave  a  poor  young  creature  of  a  wife  by  herself  at 
home? 

Dan.  What !  you  have  .    .    . 

Ang.  Get  along,  you  wretch,  get  along ;  I  am  sick  of 
your  goings-on,  and  I  will  complain  of  them,  without  de- 
lay, to  my  father  and  mother. 

Dan.  What !     You  dare  to  .    .    . 

Scene  XII. — M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville,  in  their 
night-gowns,  Colin,  calling  a  lantern,  Angelique 
and  Claudine,  at  the  window,  George  Dandin. 

Ang.  {To  M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville^.  Pray  come 
here  to  protect  me  against  the  most  consummate  insolence 
of  a  husband,  whose  brain  has  been  so  muddled  by  wine 
and  jealousy  that  he  no  longer  knows  what  he  is  saying  or 
doing,  and  has  himself  sent  for  you  to  make  you  wit- 
nesses of  the  most  extravagant  behaviour  you  ever  heard 
of.  This  is  how  he  comes  back,  as  you  may  see,  after 
making  me  wait  all  night  for  him  ;  and  were  you  to  lis- 
ten to  him,  he  will  tell  you  that  he  has  the  greatest  com- 
plaints to  make  against  me ;  that  while  he  was  asleep,  I 
left  his  side  to  go  gadding  about,  and  a  hundred  other 
stories  of  the  same  nature,  which  he  has  taken  into  his 
head. 

Dan.  {Aside).    There  is  a  wicked  strumpet  I 

Clau.  Yes,  he  wishes  to  make  out  that  he  was  in  the 
house,  and  that  we  were  outside ;  and  it  is  a  fancy  which 
we  cannot  drive  out  of  his  head. 

M.  de  S.  How  now !     What  means  all  this  ? 


KENKXii.J  THE  ABASHED   HUSBAND.  56  e 

Mad.  de  S.  Here  is  a  confounded  impudence,  to  send 
for  us. 

Dan.  Well  I  never  .    .    . 

Ang.  No,  father,  I  can  no  longer  put  up  with  such  a 
husband:  my  patience  is  exhausted;  and  he  has  been 
saying  all  manner  of  insulting  words  to  me. 

M.  DE  S.  (r<?  George  Dandin).  Zounds  !  you  are  a  vile 
fellow. 

Clau.  It  is  pity  to  see  a  poor  young  wife  treated  in 
such  a  fashion  ;  it  cries  to  Heaven  for  vengeance. 

Dan.   Can  any  one  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  You  ought  to  die  with  shame. 

Dan.  Allow  me  to  say  two  words. 

Ang.  Only  listen  to  him :  he  will  tell  you  something 
pretty ! 

Dan.  {Aside).  I  give  it  up  in  despair. 

Clau.  He  has  drunk  so  much,  that  there  is  no  staying 
near  him  ;  and  the  scent  of  the  wine  which  he  exhales 
comes  up  even  to  us. 

Dan.  Sir  father-in-law,  I  implore  you  .   ,   . 

M.  DE  S.  Withdraw :  your  breath  smells  offensively  of 
wine.'" 

Dan.  I  pray  you,  Madam  .  .  . 

Mad.  DE  S.  Away !  do  not  come  near  me ;  your  breath 
is  filthy. 

Dan.   (^To  M.  de  Sotenville').  Allow  me  to  .  .  . 

M.  DE  S.  Withdraw:  I  tell  you,  there  is  no  bearing 
you. 

Dan.  {To  Mad.  de  Sotenville).  For  pity's  sake,  let 
me  .  .   . 

Mad.  DE  S.  Fie  upon  it!  you  make  me  sick.  Speak  if 
you  will,  but  at  a  distance. 

**  Chamfort,  in  his  Eloge  de  la  Fontaine,  says  justly :  "  Who  represents 
best  the  effects  of  prejudice  :  M.  de  Sotenville,  saying  to  a  man  who  has 
not  been  taking  a  drop  of  wine,  "  Withdraw,  your  breath  smells  offen- 
sively of  wine,"  or  the  Bear  (in  La  Fontaine's  fable  of  The  Bear  and  the 
two  Comrades),  who,  in  taking  a  living,  but  sleeping,  man  for  a  corpse, 
says  to  himself,  "  Let  us  go  away,  for  he  smells  ?  "  Compare  Congreve's 
The  Way  of  the  World  (iv.,  10  and  11),  where  Mrs.  Millamant  says  to 
Lady  Wishfort,  "Your  pardon,  Madam,  I  can  stay  no  longer;  Sir  Wilful 
grows  very  powerful.  Eh  !  how  he  smells,  I  shall  be  overcome,  if  I  stay." 
And  Lady  Wishfort  replying,  "  Smells  I  He  would  poison  a  tallow-chandler 
and  his  family."     But  Sir  Wilful  Witwould  is  really  intoxicated. 


566  GEORGE  DANDIN  ;   OR,  Tact  hi. 

Dan.  Very  well,  then,  I  will  speak  at  a  distance.  I 
swear  to  you  that  I  have  not  stirred  out  of  the  house,  and 
that  it  was  she  who  went  out. 

Ang.  Did  I  not  tell  you  so  ? 

Clau.  You  see  how  likely  that  is. 

M.  DE  S.  {^To  George  Dandin).  Go,  you  are  jesting 
with  people.     Descend,  daughter,  and  come  here. 

Scene  XIII. — M.  afid  Madam  de  Sotenville,  George 
Dandin,  Colin. 

Dan.  I  take  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  was  in  the  house, 
and  that  ... 

M.  DE  S.  Hold  your  tongue ;  this  extravagance  is  un- 
bearable. 

Dan.  May  a  thunderbolt  strike  me  on  the  spot,  if  .  .  . 

M.  DE  S.  Do  not  pester  my  head  any  longer,  but  rather 
think  of  asking  your  wife's  pardon. 

Dan.  I !  ask  pardon  ? 

M.  DE  S.  Yes,  pardon,  and  immediately. 

Dan.  What  !     I  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  Zounds  !  if  you  answer  me,  I  shall  teach  you 
what  it  is  to  make  fools  of  us. 

Dan.  Ah  !  George  Dandin  ! 

Scene  XIV. — M.  and  Madam  de  Sotenville,  Ang^lique, 
Claudine,  George  Dandin,  Colin. 

M.  de  S.  Come  hither,  daughter,  that  your  husband 
may  ask  your  pardon. 

Ang.  I !  pardon  him  all  that  he  has  said  to  me  ?  No, 
no,  father,  I  cannot  possibly  make  up  my  mind  to  it ;  and 
I  beg  of  you  to  separate  me  from  a  husband  with  whom  I 
can  no  longer  live. 

Clau.  How  can  she  bear  it  ? 

M.  DE  S.  Such  separations,  daughter,  are  not  brought 
about  without  a  great  deal  of  scandal ;  and  you  should 
show  yourself  wiser  than  he,  and  be  patient  once  more. 

Ang.  How  can  I  be  patient  after  such  indignities?  No, 
father,  I  cannot  consent  to  it. 

M.  DE  S.  You  must,  daughter;  I  command  you. 

Ang.  This  word  stops  my  mouth.  You  have  absolute 
authority  over  me. 

Clau.    What  gentleness ! 


scKNKxv.l  THE  ABASHED  HUSBAND.  567 

Ang.  It  is  vexatious  to  have  to  overlook  such  insults ; 
but,  whatever  violence  I  may  do  to  my  feelings,  it  is  my 
duty  to  obey  you. 

Clau.   Poor  lamb ! 

M.  DE  S.  (^To  Angelique).     Draw  near. 

Ang.  Whatever  you  make  me  do  will  be  of  no  use- 
we  shall  have  to  recommence  to-morrow,  you  will  see. 

M.  DE  S.  We  shall  put  a  stop  to  it.  {JTo  George  Dan- 
din).     Come !  go  down  on  your  knees. 

Dan.  On  my  knees? 

M.  DE  S.   Yes,  on  your  knees,  and  without  delay. 

Dan.  {Kneeling  with  a  candle  in  his  hands).  {Aside). 
Oh  !  Heavens !    {To  M.  de  Sotenville).    What  am  I  to  say? 

M.  DE  S.    Madam,  I  beg  of  you  to  pardon  me  .    .    . 

Dan.   Madam,  I  beg  of  you  to  pardon  me  .    .    . 

M.  DE  S.  The  folly  I  have  committed  .    .    . 

Dan.  The  folly  I  have  committed  .  .  .  {Aside),  of 
marrying  you. 

M.  DE  S.  And  I  promise  you,  to  behave  better  for  the 
future. ^ 

Dan.  And  I  promise  you,  to  behave  better  for  the 
future. 

M.  DE  S.  {To  George  Dandin).  Take  care,  and  re- 
member that  this  is  the  last  of  your  impertinences  that  we 
shall  endure. 

Mad.  DE  S.  By  the  Heavens  above  us  !  if  you  try  them 
again,  you  shall  be  taught  the  respect  due  to  your  wife, 
and  to  those  from  whom  she  is  descended. 

M.  DE  S.  The  day  is  breaking.  Farewell.  {To  George 
Dandin).  Go  in,  and  learn  to  behave  better.  {To Madam 
de  Sotenville).     And  we,  love,  let  us  go  to  bed. 

Scene  XV. — George  Dandin,  alone. 
Ah  !  I  give  it  up  altogether,  and  I  can  see  no  help  for 
it.     When  one  has   married,  as  I  have  done,  a  wicked 
wife,  the  best  step  which  one  can  take  is  to  go  and  throw 
one's  self  into  the  water,  head  foremost. 

2^  In  former  times,  criminals  \<^ere  sometimes  leg^ally  condemned  to  ask 
pardon  publicly.  This  was  called  amende  honorable.  The  culprit  was  in 
his  shirt,  with  a  burning  torch  in  one  hand,  kneelins:.  and  with  a  rope 
round  his  neck.  George  Dandin.  half-undressed,  with  his  candle,  and  on 
his  knees,  gives  no  bad  idea  of  such  an  exhibition. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


»  QLAPR17  199! 


'«'^'     -^      '^t;*-.\ 


■.V.  ■{^KI''^^   h 


v^,-^-^"v;^v--:.Mj  ^'i 


n^  .:''i :  '\- 


-..^»^-  >>*•■ 


